


won't you wear my watermark

by bottomlinsons (grimgrace)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit in Future Chapters, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Romance, Romantic Soulmates, Seduction, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Unresolved Sexual Tension, sexual awakening
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-05-21 13:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 43,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6054046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimgrace/pseuds/bottomlinsons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The new Earl of Harrisson is a young man, an impulsive romantic, forced to shoulder too much responsibility far too soon. He is also Louis’ soulmate, but there’s nothing to be done about that. At least, as far as Louis is concerned. </p><p>The Earl, it seems, will take some convincing. </p><p>(A slow burn Regency AU featuring secrets, seduction and, our favourite, soulmarks.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, hello! After teasing you guys for months on end about a new Regency fic in the works, I finally have something to share with you! I'm super excited to finally be posting this ans I hope you guys are just as excited to read it, but first I have a couple of notes. 
> 
> I do just wanna say a massive thank you to [babz](http://thebestfansinhelp.tumblr.com/) and [nicole](http://oldladyalmighty.tumblr.com/) for helping me so much with this fic. The number of things they've had to correct me on are almost innumerable so I'm not lying when I say this wouldn't be here without them. I also wanna thank [princess](http://britishhusbands.tumblr.com/) for being such an awesome Harry Styles-esque cheerleader because it's kept me super motivated :P 
> 
> I'll be updating this story every Friday (Australian East Coast time). I'm several chapters ahead of myself so you won't have to worry about lack of updates :D Also, I've made the rating Explicit because it will be in future chapters. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Disclaimer: This is meant to be a work of fiction, and is in no way a reflection of the real people involved, and therefore no offense is intended. No profit is being made from this work. Please do not share this work, or make it known to the boys or anyone connected to the boys.**

**♣**  

Charlotte meets her soulmate two weeks into her first season. Wallace Johnson is the man in question, the second son of a baron, with straw blonde hair, a kind smile and five hundred a year. His acreage, while small, seems reasonably managed and well-staffed, and his family seem a good sort — more than happy to welcome Charlotte into their arms when everything is realised.

She could certainly do worse, Louis ultimately decides. And even if she couldn’t, there is no arguing with the effulgent glow that now surrounds her. Nor, he thinks, can he dispute the delicate swirl of intricate lines that sweep along Charlotte’s wrist, outlining a destiny for her that has existed long before Louis had any say over her future.

The look on Johnson’s face had been almost reverent when he’d reached for his shirt sleeve. Louis had watched, breathless, as he’d fiddled with his shirt cuff and slowly rolled the fabric away, exposing his own skin. Seeing his mark — a perfect copy, a perfect match for Charlotte’s — really only solidifies everything Louis already knows.

A chapter of his sister’s life has ended, and a very new one has begun.

He lifts his glass with everyone else and certainly, resolutely, does not feel jealous.

.

“Louis?” Daisy asks him some time later. “Louis, what’s a soul mark?”

They’d returned home only a few hours after the commotion. The ride had been filled with a combination of his sister’s excited laughter and his mother’s happy tears. Mark had endured the whole thing with a fond smile on his face, a glowing look of pride that he’s always reserved for his eldest daughter, so contagious that Louis couldn’t help but smile along.

“ _I cannot believe this,_ ” Lottie had said, clutching at her mother’s hand. Her mark is still uncovered, the small slip of fabric she’d worn for years and years now hanging uselessly in her left hand. _“The way it felt, oh. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy.”_

It must have been a confusing sight to behold, Louis thinks, for his sisters that hadn’t attended the ball. They’d only been home for a matter of minutes before Félicité, Phoebe and Daisy had all stirred at the sound of their commotion and come down to investigate.

Félicité had puzzled out the answer instantly, of course, and with a little shriek of joy demanded to know every detail. She’d dragged Charlotte back to their room in a matter of minutes. Johannah had followed after, her smile a relaxed and fond thing, promising to her younger daughters that they’d understand the fuss when they were older.

Louis sits with them now, by the fire in the dining room. They gaze up at him curiously, their shiny eyes catching the light flickering behind him.

“Why wasn’t Lots wearing her band?” Phoebe asks in the following second, before Louis can even begin to think how to answer the first question. “Mama told me that she wasn’t ever to take hers off, just like Dais.”

Daisy frowns down at the garment in question. Hers is tied higher up her arm than Charlotte’s had been, detailed with delicate blue lace. When she reaches up to tug at it, Louis takes her hand. “Don’t fiddle with that, love,” he says.

Her bottom lip juts out, her eyebrows creasing more heavily in the middle. “But Lots took hers off,” she says.

Louis nods. “I know,” he replies. “But Lots is much older than you and different rules apply to her.”

“But why?” Daisy pouts.

“They just do,” Louis says. “She is allowed to do things that you aren’t, the same way you’re allowed to do things that she isn’t.”

Phoebe is the one to frown now. Sitting next to each other like they are, identical expressions side-by-side, the look is almost comical. “Like what, though?”

Louis sighs. “Don’t you think that Lots would like to stay at home and play with her dolls the way you two do?”

Phoebe laughs. “Don’t be silly, Lou,” she chides him. “Lottie doesn’t have _dolls._ ”

“She certainly did,” Louis says. He recalls the thousands of times he’d tripped over the damn things, growing up. All the different names she’d given them, the attention she’d devoted to dressing them and brushing their hair. “And she loved playing with them. But she doesn’t anymore, does she?”

“No,” Phoebe snorts. The idea is almost outlandish to her, it seems. “Course not. She’s a _lady_.”

Louis nods, “Exactly.”

Phoebe pauses in her questioning to consider what she’s learned so far, and Louis takes the opportunity to look at Daisy. She’s quiet now, still looking down at the band wrapped around her arm with a look on her face that breaks Louis’ heart.

Carefully, Louis moves a little closer. Resting a hand on her shoulder, he leans down until his head is on her level and asks, “What’s wrong, love?”

Daisy’s fingers pluck at the blue lace for a second longer before she looks up. “I wish I could take mine off,” she says.

Louis takes her hand and soothes his fingers over the backs of her palm, if only to stop her fiddling. There’s a deep kind of sadness in his chest, swelling at the knowledge that he has to attempt to explain this to her, once again. He’d take all the anguish from her, if he could.

“You can’t,” he tells her. “You know that.”

She sounds incredibly sad when she sighs. “I know.”

“It’s only because it’s so special, Dais,” he says, doing his best to cheer her up. “And one day, when you’ve grown a little more, you’ll be able to take it off for just the right person.”

He doesn’t particularly like thinking of his eleven-year-old sister taking the band off for anyone, but that isn’t important. Not after everything that’s already happened this evening.

Daisy doesn’t look any happier though. “But I like my lines, Lou,” she says.

“You can still see them at night, silly,” Phoebe scoffs.

Louis shoots her a quietening look. She has never needed to wear her own band; her mark, which Louis had seen fleetingly when he was much, much younger, sat right above her knee and was now easily concealed by the folds of her dresses and skirts.

“Of course you like your lines,” Louis says, retuning his attention to Daisy. “But they’re private, okay? They’re just for you.”

Daisy wipes at the corner of her eye. It’s an aborted little movement, frustration spilling over the edges. “Then why’s Lots taken hers off?”

Phoebe chooses that moment to sweep in from the side and wrap her arms around her sister. Holding her perhaps a little too tightly, she says, “Because she’s older, remember?” She looks up at Louis, like she’s making sure that she’s saying the right thing. “Right, Lou?”

Louis smiles, trying to remain calm and collected all the while desperately searching for the right words to explain. His mother said all this to him, once upon a time, but he can’t for the life of him remember how. She must have at least begun the conversation with the girls as well. Daisy wore the band, after all, even if she didn’t completely understand why.

It would be easier to leave it to his mother, he knows. She certainly has more of an idea of about how women deal with their marks. It had been difficult enough for Louis to learn not to talk about his mark, to absolutely never bring it up in conversation.

“ _It isn’t polite,”_ Johannah had told him, when he’d asked why. “ _People don’t like to discuss things that they have no control over, especially when it comes to matters of the heart._ ”

Louis can effortlessly recall the confusion he’d felt. How disappointed he’d been that he couldn’t ask all the questions he’d like — like, when would he meet his soulmate and what would they be like? It had been even worse learning that neither of the answers mattered to him. Whoever his soulmate was, they were irrelevant, at least within the circles his family travelled.

He doesn’t want to see the same look in his little sister’s eyes. He doesn’t want to be the one to disappoint her. It isn’t fair to leave the task to his mother, though, so he takes a deep breath and does his best.

“Do you remember when Mother read to you?” he asks them. “Before you fell asleep, when you were a little younger?”

They nod their heads in unison.

“And do you remember that lovely story she told you? About falling in love with father?”

“Oh!” Phoebe says excitedly, “I do! I do, that was my favourite one!” She elbows Daisy a little roughly, almost bouncing on her feet. “You know the one, don’t you Dais?”

Daisy doesn’t say anything — doesn’t nod or shake her head — choosing instead to keep her attention focused on Louis. He looks at her encouragingly. 

“Do you remember why they fell in love?” he asks her.

This time she does nod, sniffling. “Because they’re soulmates?” Her voice is quiet and wobbly.

Louis nods his head. “That’s exactly right, Dais,” he says. “Because they’re soulmates. And that’s what your lines are for, love. So that when you meet your soulmate, you don’t miss them.”

Now isn’t the right time for them to hear about the rest of it. To know how their society feels about the marks, to know about the men and women who would scoff derisively at the sight of them, won’t make any sense to the two young girls. It will only confuse them to hear that marrying one’s soulmate is considered whimsical, in this day and age, irresponsible and foolish. They wouldn’t understand, especially not with Lottie upstairs, celebrating. They don’t need to know how lucky Lottie is, how rare it is to be in her position and find their soulmate with an appropriate name and title.

Daisy looks back down at her band. This time her gaze is thoughtful and Louis feels a little weight lift off his shoulders. Beside Daisy, Phoebe looks like she’s working out a particularly stubborn puzzle.

Then an awed kind of realisation crosses her face. She squeals. “Does Lots have a soulmate?!”

Louis flinches a little at the pitch of her shriek. Before he has time to tell her off, however, she is out of the room and tearing up the stairs, leaving Louis and Daisy in her dust. There’s a pause, simply for Louis to regather his thoughts, before he chuckles.

Daisy is watching him carefully. “Does she?” she asks.

She doesn’t look upset or angry, but Louis isn’t always the best judge of these sorts of things. As much as he loves his sisters, he’s never been very skilled at predicting their moods. Daisy, in particular, is an emotional soul.

Cautiously, he nods. “She does, love,” he says.

Daisy considers this for a long moment, watching him carefully. “Do they have the same lines?” she asks.

“They do,” Louis nods again.

Daisy worries at her bottom lip, fingers still picking at the band on her arm while she stares down at her own knees. When she looks back up, her eyes are shining again.

“Do _I_ have a soulmate?” she asks.

Louis doesn’t think there’s a world that could exist in which this sweet little girl didn’t have the perfect man waiting for her somewhere down the line. Somewhere very, very far down the line.

“Of course you do,” he says. “You have your lines, don’t you?”

She nods her head, looking bashful.

She doesn’t need to know, yet, that she probably won’t find him. That he could be a serving boy somewhere, or living on the streets, their paths destined to cross only once before society carries them down their separate paths.

Understanding that, Louis knows, only comes with time.

“Well then,” he says instead. “There’s no doubting it. Somewhere out there is the future Mr. Daisy Tomlinson.”

Daisy giggles. Her face goes a little pink. “Louis!” she whines.

Upstairs, he hears the recognisable sound of his sisters squealing with excitement. He can hear his mother laughing as well. It just won’t do, he thinks, to have Daisy down here and missing out on the fun.

“Daisy,” he says. “Don’t you think we should go and congratulate your sister on finding her Mr. Charlotte?”

Daisy laughs again, a bright and gleeful thing that lights up her face, so he scoops her up into his arms without a second more hesitation. In a year or two she’ll be too old to be carried around by her brother, so he figures he’ll take advantage of it while he still can. He can still remember when she was a babe, after all, and fit in the curve of Mark’s arm.

Everyone is growing up so quickly, he realises as they ascend the stairs. He’s not at all sure that he’ll be able to keep up.

.

What happens next happens quickly.

Louis busies himself with his business the following day, making his way further into town to speak with his solicitor regarding the state of his accounts. He leaves feeling a sight happier than when he’d arrived — another clever investment on his part has now ensured he can contribute a slightly larger sum to his little sisters’ dowries.

He doesn’t have to wait long for the chance, either.

Wallace calls on them two days following the ball, his marks covered back up and a nervous smile on his face. He waits barely three minutes before asking to speak with Charlotte in private.

No one is surprised when they reveal themselves moments later and announce that Wallace has proposed. Charlotte has tears in her eyes and Mark doesn’t hesitate before nodding his head in permission.

Louis comes forward next, to embrace his sister and shake her fiancé’s hand. Not for the first time since the events at the ball, Louis wonders what the man must be thinking. If he’s worried, or even scared, by how quickly his life must have changed. If he is, he doesn’t show it. Every line of his face is consumed by the same happiness that now radiates from Louis’ little sister.

As Wallace is hit with a barrage of questions from Daisy and Phoebe, Charlotte takes the opportunity to shift a little closer to Louis.

“Father told me what you did,” she says in an undertone.

Louis quirks a brow. “I haven’t the slightest clue what you’re talking about,” he replies.

Charlotte’s never been one for his tricks. The unimpressed look that forms on her face is a picture perfect copy of their mother’s — back when he and Charlotte stayed out too long, playing in the rain. “Are you sure you can afford it?” she asks. “I won’t have you muddling your own life up just because you’re happy for me.”

Louis huffs out a laugh. He can’t imagine there are many other sisters in the world that would worry about his wellbeing before accepting his gift. It only makes it all the more clear that she deserves it.

“You are happy for me, aren’t you?” she asks in the following second.  

Louis looks down at her fondly and doesn’t hesitate. “I don’t think I’ve ever been happier,” he says quietly.

She smiles again and, even though she’s been smiling uninterrupted for almost two days now, Louis knows this one is reserved just for him.  He ruins it because he can, and because he won’t have sincerity see her forgetting that he’s her annoying older brother.

“I mean,” he continues. “I should practically bow at the man’s feet for agreeing to take you off our hands. I thought we’d never see the back of you. I just assumed you were destined for spinsterhood.”

The elbow Charlotte digs into his gut is precise and almost knocks the breath out of him. He laughs anyway.  

“You’re just jealous,” Charlotte chides.

It hits a little close to home, but Louis can’t begrudge her that. It’s not as though she can see inside his head, after all. When Louis is eventually told to marry, it won’t be any fault of Charlotte’s.

So he sighs. “I suppose I am, a little,” he says frankly.

Charlotte looks at him, something sad creasing her eyebrows. “It will happen to you,” she tells him. “It will take you by surprise, but it will happen. After all, no one expected it to happen to me in the middle of a ballroom!”

Louis rolls his eyes. “That’s because no one else would be so precocious. Sneaking a touch in the middle of the dance floor, it’s scandalous.”

His sister flushes a soft pink and she glances down at her feet for a moment. She looks at him imploringly when she lifts her head again. “I couldn’t help it, Lou,” she says. “There was this, this pull and I think I just knew. I only touched his wrist; don’t make it sound so awful.”

Louis chuckles and pointedly doesn’t flush at her words. He’s thought about that pull, the one people talk about in hushed voices in the corners of rooms. He’s thought about how it might feel, experiencing an undeniable tug towards another human being, a total stranger.

“It isn’t awful,” he says, for lack of anything better to say. “And I am happy for you. Truly.”

How could he not be, he thinks, when his sister looks so, impossibly happy?

The following Sunday the Banns are read.

“ _I publish the Banns of marriage between Mr. Wallace Johnson of Saint Catherine’s Holy Cross Church and Miss. Charlotte Tomlinson of the Celestial Church of Christ,”_ the vicar reads diligently. “ _If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in Holy matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is the first time of my asking._ ”

No one raises any complaints, which is just as well, Louis thinks. If anyone tried to strip his sister of this now, he’d probably have to challenge them, and what an inconvenience that would be.

It goes the same way the next Sunday, and the Sunday after that. Charlotte, Johannah and Félicité are swept up in planning and making preparations and, in the meantime, Louis works a little harder to get to know his future brother-in-law.

Wallace has a good sense of humour, Louis learns first. He is sharp and clever, just like Charlotte only a touch more reserved. He holds himself with a poise that takes Louis off guard, and confesses an enthusiastic love for reading. He waxes poetic about his family as well, which Louis finds a pleasant surprise.

He has sisters of his own, Louis learns, one older and married, the other younger and on the brink of her own first season.

“We’ll have to see that she and Félicité become friends,” Wallace tells him over brandy one night. “They’ll get on like a house on fire, I expect.”

Louis hums and nods along. Considering her soft countenance and kind smile, he can’t imagine there’s anyone who wouldn’t get on with Félicité. Or that she would dislike in return.

They are given the chance to test their hypothesis in the week following, at the final reading of the bans, when the two families meet for the first time. The older sister, named Fiona, and her husband, a barrister named Michael Kemp, are the only ones absent from the gathering.

As they’d expected, Félicité and Wallace’s other sister, Delia, are instant friends. Johannah speaks with Wallace’s mother with an effortless ease and Mark and Wallace’s father seem to heartily agree on every subject they broach.

Louis mingles as he must, but ultimately spends most of his time keeping a keen eye on the youngest of his sisters. Daisy and Phoebe have been completely swept away by all this talk of romance and weddings, and as a result have been rather more excitable than normal. It’s slightly odd for a man of his age to spend time chaperoning eleven year olds, but Louis doesn’t mind. He spends the afternoon watching his sisters play, sneaking napkins from the table and pretending they’re veils the second that they escape their mother’s watchful eye.

And then Charlotte is married.

It sounds abrupt because that’s how it feels, to Louis at least. This time a month ago he’d never have known this was his future, and now — he’s watching his sister climb into a carriage to be whisked away to a brand new life.

It shocks him and it awes him and, more than anything, it terrifies him. He’s got his own marks, after all. A sprawling collection of swirls, like brushstrokes dusted across his hip, that tell him of a life that he’s yet to start living.

And out there is someone else, someone with an identical set of tangled lines painted on their skin, just waiting for him to find them.

It’s a lot of pressure for a young man to deal with, Louis thinks.

**♣**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this story has been an absolute joy, thus far, and I'd really, really love to know what you think. Feedback is absolutely key in keeping me motivated - sometimes, when I'm not feeling super keen to write, hearing from you guys is what gets me back in front of my blank Word documents :P 
> 
> I'll do my best to reply to all comments, and please feel free to pop by my [tumblr](http://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com) inbox if you have any questions or just wanna say hi! 
> 
> And don't forget to reblog the tumblr [post](http://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/post/139572796927)!! xx


	2. Chapter 2

**♣**

“Oh,” Johannah says, one morning several months later. The letter in her hand is shaking. “Lord Styles has died.”

Louis’ fork freezes in the air, halfway to his mouth. The breakfast table, which had seconds previously been full of chatter, falls silent. At the opposite end of the table, Mark lowers his paper.

“What?”

Johannah doesn’t look away from the letter. “Anne has written me,” she explains softly. “She says he was thrown from a horse, only three days ago.”

She looks so pale, Louis can’t help but stand. He makes his way to her side and takes the letter from her, allowing her to settle her hands over her heart. It must be a shock. She and Mark have known the family since long before the Styles took up residence in the Rosewood House.

He skims the words briefly. The first sentence tells him everything he needs to know.

Lord Desmond Styles, Earl of Harrisson and their closest neighbour by several hundred acres, has died. The result of an unfortunate riding accident just three days past, the note informs them.

When he tells the rest of his family, Félicité sets her fork down and pushes her plate away from her slightly. “That’s awful,” she says.

“I don’t understand,” Mark says. “What kind of riding accident? Does it say? He’s one of the best riders I’ve ever met.”

Louis shakes his head. “It doesn’t say.”

“Poor Anne,” Johanna says. “Oh, what must she be feeling? I can’t even fathom it.”

She looks at Mark with shiny eyes. His face is grim. “It might be better not to try,” he says. “You’ll only upset yourself further.”

Louis doesn’t really know what to think, aside from being glad that Phoebe and Daisy have already excused themselves from the breakfast table.

He’d only met the man a handful of times, but he knows that the man’s history with Mark traces back to their time as schoolboys. In the handful of times that he and Louis had exchanged words, he’d proved himself an intelligent and level-headed man. Louis had been impressed by his eloquence, the way that he’d commanded a room.

A bizarre kind of numbness spreads through his body, as Louis finds himself suddenly distracted by ‘what if’s’ and ‘could have been’s.’ Styles hadn’t been a young man, by any means, but he was only a few years older than Mark. He thinks, worryingly, of the amount of work that Mark does to ensure their estate runs smoothly. The idea that he is only now getting a handle on the work Mark does every day is a sobering one. Even more concerning is the knowledge that, under the wrong series of circumstances, it could suddenly become his. What if Mark were to go out riding one day and simply not return?

Louis swallows, and purposefully doesn’t think of his mother and sisters. ‘ _You ought not think like that,’_ his nanny had once said to him years and years ago _. ‘Best not to challenge fate, lest it rise to the occasion_.’

“What do you suppose she’ll do now?” he asks, in favour of thinking any more awful thoughts. “The Countess?” 

Mark ponders that for a moment, but it’s Johannah that answers, gesturing to the letter still in Louis’ hands. There is a sad turn to the corner of her mouth that Louis has only seen a handful of times, and wishes to never see again.

“Anne says that her son is returning from Eton as we speak,” she replies. “And Gemma is on her way with her husband. Beyond that I can’t be sure. Harry is only a few years younger than you are. He certainly won’t know how to run an estate.”

It’s a sobering thought that, on his way now, is a boy living Louis’ worst nightmare.  

Louis hasn’t met him before. Despite their families living side-by-side for almost seven years now, they’ve never been introduced. When the Styles’ had bought the Rosewood House, Louis had been studying at Cambridge. By the time he’d returned, the Styles heir had already made his way to Eton.

“You should write to Anne,” Mark announces then. “Tell her that when the boy arrives, should he need anything, I will be here.”

Should they call him a boy? Louis wonders. Considering everything, and in the wake of his father’s death, the boy was now rightfully an Earl. They ought to be calling him Lord.

“I should write to Gemma,” Félicité says. “I’ve completely lost my appetite anyway. May I be excused?”

Louis hasn’t met Gemma either. She’d only lived with her family for a year before she was wed, to a Lord Marcus Flemington who lived closer to Surrey. His sisters were certainly enamoured with her, as well as his mother. He’d received several letters from them while he’d studied, singing her praise. Under different circumstances, he’d be excited for the opportunity to meet her.

Mark nods and Félicité stands.

“I’ll have to write to Charlotte, as well,” Johannah continues, once Félicité has left. “She and Gemma were quite close. I think she’d like to know.”

“I’ll write her if you like,” Louis offers. He’s been meaning to write his little sister for several days now. This, unfortunately, serves as a solemn motivator. “Would you like to keep the letter?”

Johannah takes it back from him. She reads it one last time, presumably checking for information she might have missed earlier, before folding it neatly and setting it down on the table.

“Does it say when the funeral will be held?” Mark asks.

Johannah nods. “Next week,” she says. “Sunday night. You are invited.”

There is no question, then, that he and Mark will attend. Considering his father’s friendship with the man and the relationship between their families, there is no doubt. In the absence of his mother and sisters, Louis can only do his best to represent them.

“I will call on Anne tomorrow and tell her,” Johannah says. “I might invite her here for tea on Sunday evening. It might distract her.”

Mark nods. “Do,” he encourages her. “I’m sure the invitation would be welcome. Make sure the kitchen knows.”

Johannah nods, and excuses herself. As she makes her way from the dining room, Louis catches her. “Pass my condolences to the Countess, won’t you?”

She nods and he thinks about perhaps adding something for the son as well, some sort of message of solidarity, but he stops himself. They haven’t ever met, after all, and Louis thinks that perhaps it would come across more invasive than anything else.

He’ll leave it for now, he decides as his mother departs. He’ll have his chance to meet the boy when he returns from Eton. And who knows? They might even become friends.

.

The following Sunday, Lady Anne Styles and her daughter arrive at Mayfield only minutes before Louis and Mark plan to leave.

Anne steps out of the carriage first, adorned in black lace. Her skin is pale and she looks slightly thinner than Louis recalls, but beyond that she does not betray whatever awful mix of emotions she must be feeling. She holds her head high, her shoulders back, and walks towards Johannah with an air of elegance that makes Louis feel abruptly childish.

He doesn’t have the benefit of prior knowledge when it comes to the daughter. As she follows her mother, she gives Louis the chance to take her in. She’s beautiful, that much is sure. Her round eyes and soft complexion speak to a sort of fairytale beauty and certainly would have caught the eye of several of Louis’ university friends. Louis, however, finds himself lingering on the stern set of her lips. He cannot tell if the expression is the result of the past week’s events, or if that is simply the way that she carries herself.

He’ll be given the chance to learn, he reminds himself, but now is certainly not that time.

When they come to a stop, Mark bows his head slightly. “Your ladyship,” he says. “Welcome.”

“Thank you for having us, Lord Tomlinson.”

“May I pass on my deepest condolences for your loss? Your husband was a good man. I will miss him and his company.”

Anne’s smile is grim. “I think we all will,” she says.

Johannah comes forward next, nodding her head. Her eyes are sad. They’ve been that way almost all week, but Louis still can’t stand the sight of it. Of all the people in the world, his mother is one who should always be smiling.

“And Lady Flemington,” Mark addresses her daughter, “I’m sorry to meet you again under such circumstances. Is your husband well?”

The girl, Gemma, nods her head with a strained smile. “He was held up with business,” she says. “He’ll arrive tomorrow evening.”

“I look forward to meeting him,” Mark says.

She nods again, the move leaving an awkward silence in its wake. It’s a wonder that anyone knows how to speak, under circumstances like these. Every word seems far too rough for the delicate air between them.

“Please,” Johannah says, gesturing towards the house. “Do come inside. Mark and Louis were just about to set off.”  

Both women spare him a glance when he’s mentioned, which Louis acknowledges with a solemn dip of his hat. All the words that rush to him in the following seconds seem too clumsy, too heavy, to be of any use to them — so he deems it better not to try.

Anne looks back to Mark. “My son will be there to greet you,” she tells him. “He left when we did.”

Mark nods grimly. “I look forward to meeting him, as well,” he says. “I’ve heard he’s an accomplished young man. Your husband spoke very highly of him.”

Anne’s lips thin a little at that. It seems almost like anger, Louis thinks at first, before he sees the little flinch at the corner of her eye. Sadness, then.

“He had good reason to,” she says.

Mark nods.

“Well,” Johannah looks to Mark when the moment settles into quiet silence. “You should be away,” she says. “We’ll keep the Ladies in good company.”

Mark smiles again. It’s a strained little thing, suggesting he feels as uncomfortable about smiling in front of Lady Styles and her daughter as Louis’ does.

“See that you do,” he says to Johannah. “It was good to see you, Lady Styles,” he says when he turns back to Anne. “And your daughter. No matter the circumstances.”

It takes Anne a moment to force a smile onto her face, but once she does she bows her head in acquiescence. “Likewise,” she says.

Louis bows his head to them once more before following his father in the direction of their own carriage. As they go, the women begin moving towards the front door. Félicité, Louis notices, approaches Gemma with the familiarity of an old friend, their mother’s kind smile painted across her face.

The funeral, by comparison, proceeds with relative ease.

Louis’ been to a few funerals before this, some for people that he knew far better than he knew Desmond Styles, but he still feels a sombre swell of emotion when the coffin is carried down the aisle.

Perhaps, he thinks, it’s that the people he knew — the ones who had died — had never been as grand as Desmond Styles. When one of his friends from university had died, falling ill and passing well before his time, it had been a tragedy. His funeral asked Louis to consider the loss of such a life force, a young man robbed from the world in his prime, with so much left still to do. The boy’s family had attended, along with several of the university boys, but it had remained a small affair.

Nothing like this.

Louis recognises almost every important face from town when he and Mark walk inside. Naturally, they greet as many as they can reach — shaking hands with grim faces and acknowledging the awful circumstance that have brought them all to meet again. It’s no wonder, Louis thinks. Styles had proved himself several times over to be, not only an upstanding member of their small community, but a great man. How can he be surprised that most of the town has made the effort to commemorate his passing?

There are only two or three people that Louis doesn’t recognise. One of the unfamiliar faces stands out from the rest.

“That’ll be the new Lord, then,” Mark says, when he seems him.

The man shaking his hand, a Mr. Matthew Kingsley who owns some property several miles away from Mayfield, nods. “He seems a good sort. He was distracted when we spoke, but that’s understandable.”

Mark hums. “Des always said he had a good head on his shoulders.”

Kingsley either agrees, or doesn’t know how to reply to that, because he doesn’t really say anything. The two men watch the boy for a moment longer before turning their attention to other matters.

Louis, however, is not so easily swayed. It is perhaps impolite of him to linger at Mark’s side rather than speak to the several acquaintances he does have in the room, but he can’t seem to manage to pull himself away.

The new Lord Styles has a broad back, Louis observes, and what looks like strong shoulders. His hair is grown long and curls the way that a girl’s might. It’s gathered at the nape of his neck, but the length of it has it sitting primly between his shoulder blades. It looks soft, Louis thinks errantly, and he finds it difficult to equate the man’s solid stance with the kind of hair that Charlotte used to dream of.

When he turns around, he surveys the church with an air of cold disinterest. His eyes, though a startlingly bright shade of green, are dull and dispassionate, and his cheeks seem drained of colour. His lips are a bitten pink, a stark contrast to the sallow look of him.

It feels almost wrong, somehow. Louis wouldn’t know this boy from any other man in England, and yet for some reason Louis begins to think about what he might look like if he smiled.

His voice, Louis learns, when the service begins and the boy steps up with the Bible in his hands, is a surprise. It has a low and scratchy sound, one that Louis would analyse further given the chance, but as the boy begins to speak, Louis finds himself distracted by an odd feeling. His body seems to thrum the way a limb might after leaning on it too long. It extends from his toes all the way up to the back of his neck.

“ _Do not let your hearts be troubled,”_ the boy recites, as Louis shakes the feeling off. “ _Trust in God; trust also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you.”_

Whether that is how he always talks, or if his voice, too, has been influenced by his grief, Louis doesn’t know. He should like to learn though, he thinks. He should like to see this boy with colour in his cheeks and light in his eyes.

The chance is right there for the taking, more importantly. The boy’s new responsibilities would certainly be enough to have finished his time at Eton. He was a Lord now, Earl of Harrison and owner of Rosewood House and its attached estate. Over the next few months, with the help of his mother and his sister and perhaps even Mark, this boy would learn exactly what his new title entailed.

If Louis can offer even the slightest amount of assistance to the boy — in bearing what is surely the most terrifying amount of responsibility that the boy will have ever seen — then what choice does he have?

It would be criminal to stand idly by. 

.

After the service, Louis finds the new Earl of Harrisson, Lord Harry Styles, sitting on the ground behind the church.

He’s crying. Not quietly, either. His sobs speak to a kind of grief that Louis’ never felt before, so wretched that they sound as though they’ve been ripped from the boy’s chest by force. It makes Louis’ chest ache, an overwhelming sense of sympathy stirring within him — stronger than Louis has ever felt before.

If anyone else sees him like this, the town will talk about it for days.

Scratching absently at this hip, Louis steps heavily towards him, making sure his feet crunch in the gravel. Sure enough, the sound catches the boy’s attention and his head swings up and around.

His eyes are rimmed red, his cheeks blotchy and his lips a bitten pink. When he catches sight of Louis, he flinches bodily, his hands flying hastily to his eyes. He rubs furiously at his tear-stained skin, clearing his throat. 

His voice, when he speaks, is hoarse, wet. “Sorry,” he says, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t — I thought—” He cuts himself off sharply, deflating a little. There’s no denying that he has been caught. He finishes lamely. “I didn’t think anyone would come here.”

It’s a fair enough thought. It’s cold, without the church walls to block the wind, and the sun has long since set. There’s a chill in the air that seems to reach right down to Louis’ bones. Harry Styles’ reasons for withstanding it are abundantly clear. The young man seems so consumed by his grief that he has either not noticed, or does not care.

Louis glances back at the Church. He’s fairly confident that no one else will join them, but he obviously can’t be sure. He thinks he should say as much, get the boy up and out of the cold, but is still deciding on the words when Styles takes him by surprise.

“I thought it would be easier,” he says, cutting through the silence. He gestures vaguely at the church, a bitter twist to his mouth. “You know,” he continues, “Doing this, being here. I don’t know why I thought that.”

Louis swallows whatever thick something that’s risen into his throat. He has no idea why this stranger would speak to him like this, but for some reason he doesn’t seem to care. He just wants to see that heart-wrenching sadness leave the boy’s face.

“He was your father,” he says, as if that is somehow going to help.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Styles lets out a dry chuckle. It tears at something, deep down in Louis’ gut. “I suppose,” he says. “I hadn’t seen him in years. Too busy at school.”

Louis understands that at least. At Cambridge, he’d been too swept up by the excitement of university and the company of his peers to worry about coming home. There was too much conversation to be had, too many drinks to be drunk, to worry about visiting his family.

“He asked to see me,” Styles continues dully. “Before Christmas, did you know?”

Louis didn’t know, but he thinks that Styles probably knows that. He assumes it’s rhetorical.

“Sent me a letter, asking me to come home and see the family. I said I couldn’t. Went to my friend’s house in Devon, instead.”

Louis almost wishes he would start crying again. That, at least, Louis could manage. He’s looked after his sisters while they cried, albeit at a much younger age. But he knew the basics. He has absolutely no idea how to manage this kind of bare-boned grief.

“You didn’t know,” is what he eloquently stutters, after a moment.

Styles shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know much, apparently,” he says. “Don’t know how to run an estate; don’t know how to talk to my mother.” Another humourless laugh escapes him. “I don’t even know any of the people here.”

He jerks his hand over his shoulder, gesturing at the church. Bizarrely, Louis feels compelled to explain.

“Oh,” he says. “Uhm, well. The Mayor was there, and, uhm, Lord Tyler from Kent.” He wracks his brain, trying desperately to match faces to names. “Jack Carrington as well, he’s, uh, he _was_ a friend of your father’s. And Kevin Inness, he owns most of the bars in town. Oh! And Doctor Preston was here, he was the one in the second row? — With the, uh, the white hair?”

He occurs to Louis, the second he falls silent, how stupid he must sound. He feels his cheeks flush and has to fight the urge to excuse himself and flee.

Bizarrely, when he looks at Styles again, the boy is smiling. An inelegant sense of pride settles in Louis’ stomach, at the sight of it.

Obviously bemused, Styles says, “I don’t even know who _you_ are.” 

And, well, Louis can’t begrudge him that.

“I’m Louis Tomlinson,” he says carefully. He feels like he could make a mistake at any moment, inexplicably nervous. “I — my father is the Baron of Chisholm. My family lives at Mayfield Manor. We’re your neighbours.”

When he realises he’s staring at Styles’ mouth, lingering on the corners that are tilting ever so slightly upwards, Louis flushes a little more. Styles doesn’t notice though, thank the Lord.

“Well,” Styles says. “I suppose it’s nice to meet you, Lord Tomlinson.”

Louis smiles, feeling mysteriously off-balance. “Likewise,” he says. “Although I regret that it is under these circumstances.”

Something in Styles’ smile fades. Louis fights the peculiar urge to kick himself.

“Did you know my father well, Lord Tomlinson?” Styles asks.

Louis shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I, uh, I didn’t have that privilege. I only met him on a few occasions. But he was good friends with my father.”

“Your father?”

“Mark Tomlinson. They went to school together.”

Styles lets out a humming noise. It sounds defeated, resigned. Louis doesn’t like it. “I think I’ve heard his name before,” Styles says. “My father must have mentioned.”

Louis nods. “He must have.”

Their conversation stutters to an awkward silence then, petering out and leaving them only with the sound of the howling wind and the dull chatter of the funeral goers still inside the church.

Louis searches for something else to say. “You should call me Louis,” he blurts out in the next second.

Styles quirks a brow. “Should I?” he says.

There is something about this night that has turned Louis into an absolute fool. The heat that creeps into his cheeks is exactly what he deserves.

“I mean,” he tries to correct himself. “Our mothers are friends. I expect we’ll see more of each other, now that — now that you’re here.”

Styles considers him for a long, drawn out moment. Louis, in the interim, considers how easy it would be to convince the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

At the end of an impossibly long silence, Styles nods. “Alright then, Louis,” he says. His smile returns. “Call me Harry, then.”

Louis nods. It’s a jerky little move, just another of the confusingly off-kilter things he’s done in the last ten minutes. Annoyingly, they lapse back into silence in the following moment — rendering his awkward request completely useless.

He considers, just for a second, turning around and retreating back into the church. It’s probably a wise move. It’s been long enough that his father’s conversations must be wrapping up and soon; he’ll come looking for his son. And he’ll find him, awkwardly hovering behind the distraught new Earl.

More than anything, Louis doesn’t want that to happen. He can’t explain why.

He can’t make himself turn around, though. (If he doesn’t even try, then that’s a secret that can stay solely between him and the Lord.) Instead, he creeps a little forward.

“Your mother’s at Mayfield now, you know,” he says quietly. “And your sister.”

Harry nods his head. He’s staring off into the dark, across the field of shadowed headstones and towards where the moon is hovering over the horizon.

“I think she told me something like that,” he says. “It’s good, I’m glad.” He nods his head hurriedly, like he’s convincing himself of the fact as much as he is Louis.

Louis feels a little like he’s approaching a skittish cat. Carefully, he lowers himself down to sit. “It will help, I think,” he says. “At least to distract them.”

Harry hums again. Louis likes it no better the second time. “It’s good for them to have friends,” he says. “People they can talk to.”

Louis wonders who Harry will talk to, when he needs. For the moment, the task seems to have fallen in his lap. But when Harry needs someone, when Louis isn’t here to keep him company, he wonders who Harry will ask.

How this stranger has tangled himself so quickly in Louis’ thoughts, he has absolutely no idea. He doesn’t linger on it, though. Harry doesn’t give him the chance.

“It’s hard for them to talk about it,” Harry says abruptly, his voice suddenly wet. “To me, I mean. I’m sure they can speak with each other but — I just haven’t seen them in so long, you see. Gemma’s barely said three words to me.”

In the blink of an eye, he’s crying again. It’s perhaps more awful this time, Louis thinks, because Harry seems to be doing his best to hold it back. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, his cries escaping him almost violently.

Louis wants to make it all go away. It doesn’t matter that he’s a stranger, Louis doesn’t care that they’ve never met before tonight. All he wants, in that second, is to take this boy’s pain onto his own shoulders and bear it for him.

But he can’t do that, as it happens. All he has is a pounding heart and clumsy words.

“You have to give them time,” he says, for lack of anything better to say. “I know that’s what everyone says, but they say it for a reason. They’re _sad_.”

“I wish they weren’t.”

“I know,” Louis rushes to say. “I know you do, of _course_ you do. But all you can do is be there for them, when they need it. There isn’t anything else.”

Harry lifts his hand and clenches it in the thick tangle of hair near his scalp. “Father would know,” he sobs. “Father always knew what to do.”

Louis feels overwhelmed, overcome. His hand is halfway through the air before he remembers himself, reminds himself that he can’t just embrace a boy he’s met not half an hour previously. No matter how much he wants — _needs_ to.

“Tell me about him,” Louis says quickly, hastily, as he pulls his hand back.

There’s a pause.

Harry lifts his head. His bottom lip wobbles. “What?”

Louis nods his head, tentatively encouraging. “Your father,” he clarifies. “Tell me about him. I’d like to hear, if that’s alright.”

Harry blinks at him. Louis feels oddly exposed under his careful gaze, like everything has been cut out of him and laid on display.

“I heard that he was good at shooting,” Louis tries, one last time. “My father said they went as often they could.”

Slowly, Harry begins to nod. He seems to come back to himself, regather his thoughts. Finally, he licks his lips and clear his throat. “Uh, he did,” he says. “He was really good.”

“How good?”

“Really good.” Harry says. “He was in competitions. He taught me when I was a little boy, used to take me out in the afternoons.”

Louis nods carefully. “Did he?”

He wants to keep Harry talking, if only so that he doesn’t have the chance to cry. Surprisingly, it works.

“On my eighth birthday,” Harry says. “He gave me my first gun, took me on my first trip. Gemma was so jealous.”

“I bet she was,” Louis smiles.

“I was so nervous,” Harry says. “He told me that whatever I hit was going to be dinner, that night.” His laugh is a croaky sound, wet from his tears, but for the first time it lacks the dry, humourless edge. “I didn’t hit a thing,” he continues. “I was so worried he’d be mad, but he only laughed the whole way home.”

That sounds like the man Louis’ father admired so, Louis thinks. No wonder he and Mark got on so well — Louis could recall an almost picture perfect memory when Mark had teased him with the same game.

“What else did he like?” he asks.

Louis’ doesn’t know how long he sits there, letting Harry talk. He forgets about the cold and the wind and focused on Harry’s voice. On his smile, every time he recalls a fond memory. Louis likes that smile, he realises. The longer he can keep Harry smiling, the better.

Sure enough, Mark is the one to find them. He walks out the same door Louis had, calling Louis’ name and stopping dead when he sees them both sat on the ground.

It’s slightly improper, Louis realises. More than slightly, even. He can’t find it in him to be too bothered, though. Perhaps he’d used up all of his shame as he’d stumbled through comforting Harry.

He stands though. He knows well enough that whatever moment he and Harry have just shared has come to an end. 

“Father,” he says. “Sorry. I was just speaking to Harry. Ah—Lord Styles.”

Mark considers them both for a moment, his gaze settling on Harry. “Right,” he says. “Lord Styles.”

It’s Harry’s turn to flush now. He does it with far more grace than Louis could ever be capable. He pushes himself to his feet, brushing the seat of his trousers before he reaches for Mark’s hand.

“You must be Lord Tomlinson,” he says. “Your son was just telling me how you knew my father.”

Mark nods his head solemnly. He still looks a little confused, but quickly shakes himself free of it. He takes Harry’s hand.

“I did,” he says, “For a very long time. He was a good man. I’m very sorry to see him go.”

Harry smiles grimly. “As am I.”  

Mark nods his head as if to say ‘ _naturally’_ , but doesn’t say anything more on the subject. It must be as clear to him as it is to Louis that, no matter his title, in front of him is simply a grieving boy.

“Will you accompany us home, then?” Mark asks instead. “Considering that your family is currently at Mayfield, it seems the smartest option.” He pauses to give the church a sad look. “Besides, it does not do to dwell after events like these.”

Inexplicably, Harry glances at Louis before he nods. When he does, another of his small smiles plays at his lips. “Indeed,” he says. “I will come, if it is no trouble.”

Mark waves his hand through the air, as if physically batting Harry’s concerns away. “Of course not,” he says. “It will be our pleasure. Are you with anyone else?”

Louis hadn’t thought to ask that. It doesn’t matter, though, because Harry shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Alas, it seems I am now on my own.”

The words linger awkwardly in the air.

Mark considers Harry carefully, considers his words. He smiles sadly. “Not anymore, then,” he says. He continues before Louis can determine which of Harry’s meanings he is addressing. “Come,” he says briskly “I have the carriage waiting.”

He doesn’t leave room for argument, so neither of them tries. They follow Mark out and around the church, pausing for a few moments so that Harry can thank the Vicar before reaching the carriage.

Mark enters first, moving to the furthest corner and leaving room for the two of them.

“Please,” Louis says when Harry hesitates. “After you.”

Harry smiles graciously, bowing his head slightly. He keeps his gaze focused mostly on Louis as he moves, and it is likely because of this that he stumbles. His fine boot slips on the step and he loses his balance, falling backwards.

Louis catches his hand more out of instinct, than anything else.

The searing sting at his hip steals the breath from him. In the following second, Louis will recall later, it is as if Louis’ entire world view realigns itself — placing this sweet, vulnerable boy directly at the centre. It shudders through him almost violently, sending his heart racing and setting his blood alight.

It all happens in the blink of an eye. One second Harry is falling and the next Louis’ has his hand in his and no breath left in his lungs.

 _Oh_ , is the first thing he thinks when he comes back to himself. It’s a vague, weak thought. He’s too consumed by the wide set of Harry’s green eyes, the lingering heat at his hip, to think any clearer. _Of course._

**♣**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to tell me what you thought, and reblog the tumblr post!! x
> 
> [fic post](http://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/post/139572796927) | [tumblr](http://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

♣

By some miracle of fate, Mark completely misses the entire exchange. He sticks his head out of the carriage some seconds later and frowns at them. “Is something the matter?” he asks. “What are you waiting for?”

Louis, for his part, only gapes.

It’s Harry who comes back to himself first, dragging his gaze away from Louis with a reluctance that suggests the move physically pains him. “Sorry,” he says, the word a stretched out drawl. Before he’s even finished, he’s looking back at Louis. “I stumbled, is all. There’s no problem.”

But there is a problem, Louis wants to scream. He can’t fathom how Mark has missed it.

But he has, and he continues to do so. “The steps can get slippery this time of year,” he says, entirely unconcerned. “Do watch yourself.”

Harry swallows. Louis tracks the movement with his eyes and wonders if he’s ever seen anything more obscene.

Mark pulls his head back inside the carriage. There is one final moment between the two of them, during which Louis wonders whether or not his heart might actually fail him it’s beating so quickly.

If they don’t move soon, a voice in the back of Louis’ head reminds him, Mark will notice that something is amiss. Even in this state, Louis knows that can’t be allowed to happen.

He forces the thoughts to straighten in his head, wetting his dry lips and taking a breath. “After you,” he says. His voice is a torn, scraped thing, but it gets the job done. “Lord Styles.”

Harry’s eyes shutter, the kind of slow blink that suggests he’s waking from a deep sleep. He licks his lips, still staring, before beginning to nod his head. It begins slowly, before quickly turning into a hurried, jerky thing. “Right,” he says. “Right, of course. My apologies.”

He ducks into the carriage with one final glance, leaving Louis no choice but to follow.

Almost entirely absent of higher thought, Louis resigns himself to do it. Once inside the carriage he sees that Harry has taken the seat beside his father. The only option left to Louis is to sit opposite them.

The ride to Mayfield from the Church takes just under half an hour. It’s barely a journey and certainly nothing to complain about.

But faced with his father and his — ?

Jesus H. _Christ_. Louis would rather walk. He’d rather _crawl_.

He’s isn’t given the chance to attempt it, though. The carriage begins to move in the following second. The familiar sounds of the driver stirring the horses is enough, at least, for Louis to focus on.

He did, of course, know that men could be — could be matched. There have been whispers about it as long as he can remember, from his time as a small boy all the way through to his time at Cambridge.

“ _Did you hear about—?_ ” boys would mutter, only in the darkest of corners. “ _Can you believe it? Someone caught him at the park; apparently he looked ready to bend over then and there.”_

Even at Mayfield, they weren’t free from it. Louis, only eight or nine at the time, hadn’t given it much thought when one of their footmen had left the house. After all, it was only a job to the man. People won and lost jobs all the time, as far as Louis’ knew. But the whispers had started then as well.

“ _Thomas said they met at the market,_ ” one of the maids had said to another, while Louis his out of eyesight. “ _I heard they’re going to France, it’s all the rage over there._ ”

“ _What about his mother? His family!?”_

_“He didn’t even hesitate. I saw him go, looked giddy as a schoolboy.”_

_“He’s a fool. Should start praying for him now.”_

_“There’s no use, is there? God doesn’t care for the likes of him.”_

It was always something like that. The men, those men, who’d abandoned their families — abandoned _God_ — in favour of the company of another man. Louis had stayed away from it at university. There was no avoiding it completely, but, for the most part, he set any thought of it aside.

That, it seemed, was no longer an option.

He glances at Harry before he can help himself. It’s a mistake, Louis realises, as his marks flare hot on his hip. Harry meets his gaze evenly, unflinchingly. His eyes are narrowed slightly, but there is no anger in his face. Instead, there is a kind of unhesitating curiosity that turns Louis’ blood ice cold.

(He’s lying. It fucking sings.)

Louis looks away. It feels weak, and something deep in him protests, but he can’t help himself. A heavy feeling clenches at his stomach, strong enough to steal his breath away and he feels all of his stress stinging at the back of his eyes.

Is this what Charlotte felt when she touched Wallace’s skin for the first time? Was she overtaken by the same sense of overwhelming, all-consuming panic?

Probably not, Louis thinks. Lucky girl.

Then he thinks, oh God. _The girls._

The whispers, quiet though they might seem, have never been clearer on the matter. Those men, men who would abandon their families without a second thought — men like _Louis_ , apparently — all left their families the same way. Embroiled in certain ruin, stuck in a scandal that their sons had cowardly fled.

Is that what Harry would ask of him? To leave his mother and his father? To rip any hope of a good life from his sister’s grip?

_God_ , what Mark would think of him?

Just as Louis considers this, his fingernails twisting into the skin of his clenched palm, Mark breaks the silence.

“I’m glad for the opportunity to meet you, Lord Styles,” he says. “I was hoping to speak with you.”

Louis recalls what he’d said to Johannah, the day they’d found out about the death. How he’d promised to see his old friend’s son through the tough time ahead, and ensure that both the family and their estate made it to the other side.

He is a good man. And Louis will not betray that.

When Louis looks up, Harry is still watching him. Even as he replies. He tilts his head a little, angling his body slightly towards Mark, but his gaze never leaves Louis. “Is there something I can help you with, Lord Tomlinson?”

Mark shakes his head. “Please. Call me Mark.”  

Louis watches as a crease forms at Style’s brow. He is caught, for a moment, by the desire to smooth it away. Stuck on that thought, Louis almost misses it when Harry nods.  He _doesn’t_ miss the way that the move that plays at the shadows of his jaw.

“Very well, Mark,” he says. “As long as you call me Harry.”

Mark nods. “Harry, then.”

Hearing it from his father’s lips leaves an odd taste in Louis’ mouth.

Harry, he thinks. _Harry_.

“I had hoped to speak with you regarding your new estate,” Mark continues.

There is a pause, during which Harry considers Louis searchingly. With his heart still thumping far faster than it ought to, and the horrifying thought of Mark discovering them at any second, Louis finds himself nodding encouragingly.

Inconceivably, Harry listens.

“Did you and my father often speak about my estate?” Harry asks Mark then. His words are calculated, controlled, and Louis feels impressed despite himself.

“Not in so many words,” Mark replies. “But I thought that I might offer my assistance to you, should you need it. It’s not an easy task, especially when we consider how abruptly it has been given to you.”

“Left to me,” Harry corrects him starkly.

Mark clears his throat. “Ah,” he says. “Yes. _Left_ to you.”

A wave of sympathy swells in the bottom of Louis’ belly. He can only imagine how the rest of the town must regard Harry by now. His age, and the fact that he’s only visited Rosewood a handful of times since his father purchased the estate, must have been considered. And facts like those can easily been misconstrued — youth taken for naivety, inexperience taken for incapability.

Harry’s attitude in this will be the first of many steps he’ll have to take to correct those assumptions.

“What kind of assistance did you have in mind?” Harry asks, recapturing Louis’ focus. “Do you have experience with these matters?”

Mark seems as impressed by Harry as Louis is. “The Mayfield estate is small, I grant you,” he says, smiling, “but it does require a great deal of work. And I have seen the way your father worked over several years. He devoted a great deal of attention to Rosewood’s success.”

Harry looks down, for the first time since stepping into the carriage. His gaze falls to his own knees for a fraction of a second, before he recovers and rights himself.

Mark smiles at him, perhaps a little sadly. “I should like to help you do the same,” he says.

The unsure look on Harry’s face is almost enough to spurn Louis from his seat. He digs his fingers into the plush velvet of his seat, like he can physically hold himself back. By some miracle, it works.

Harry catches the move though. He looks from Louis’ fingers, to his face, then back to his fingers again, and his face turns thoughtful. After another drawn out pause, he finally looks back to Mark.

“I do not need your help,” he says resolutely, “and I would not have you, nor anyone in town, believe that I do.” He leaves enough time for Mark’s face to fall before continuing. “But I would appreciate it, if it were offered.”

“It is,” Mark assures him earnestly. “Your father was my friend. I want nothing more than to see you succeed.”

Louis notices, as the carriage rolls over one particularly large bump and jolts them, that some colour has returned to Harry’s cheeks. And despite himself, despite everything, the sight of it settles something within him and soothes his nerves.

“Well, then,” Harry says. “Thank you.”

They shake hands as the carriage draws to a stop, and then they only have to wait a moment or two before the carriage door is opened for them. Louis is the closest to the door and therefore the first to disembark.

The fresh night air is a blessed relief.

Harry follows him. His body brushes against Louis’ side as he steps away from the carriage, jostling him slightly. Completely unnecessary, Harry steadies him with a firm grip on his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t look it. The colour in his eyes, that Louis had found so striking, seems to sparkle. “I didn’t see you there.”

If it were anyone else Louis might call them out. As it is, he is too caught up in the heat of Harry’s fingers seeping through the fabric of his sleeves, to do anything more than stare. Harry lets go of him when Mark begins to climb out, leaving Louis feeling bizarrely unsteady on his own two feet.

He cannot do this, Louis thinks. It is even clearer under the shadow of his family home. He _will not_ do this.

“The ladies will be inside,” Mark says when he, too, steps out. “It will have been a trying night.”

Harry’s expression turns sombre once more. He looks at the large front doors like they’re a challenge, an obstacle to overcome, when he nods.

“Indeed,” he says. “I’m sure my mother will be anxious to get home.”

Mark nods. “Well,” he says. “We had better let you collect her.”

Harry smiles graciously. Mark turns to lead him into the house but Harry doesn’t move. He instead finds Louis’ gaze again and waits for Louis to move before he follows.

Louis feels a dull sense of apprehension creep up his spine. It’s foolish to think that he’ll walk inside and be discovered. As well as his mother knows him, this isn’t some poorly concealed emotion that she recognises on his face. His entire life has changed, realigned itself to focus on something unfamiliar and new, and she will have no idea. Neither will his sisters.

And that is the way it will have to stay. That they haven’t been discovered, that their marks are so well hidden, is a good thing.

They find the women in the drawing room. Phoebe and Daisy are absent, probably long since sent to bed, but Félicité is still awake. She sits close to Gemma Styles, their knees turned towards each other and their heads close. They must be good friends, Louis realises, for Félicité to treat her with such familiarity.

Anne and Johannah are barely any better. They sit opposite one another, a small coffee table between them and a deck of cards spread out between them. They both have a hand full of cards as well, although they put them down and stand when Mark, Harry and Louis enter.

“You’re home,” Johannah greets them. “And you’ve brought a spare!”

Harry lets out a good natured laugh and bows his head to her. “Lady Tomlinson, I presume?”

Johannah nods. “You presume correctly,” she says. “You must be Lord Styles. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She says the words kindly and, even though Louis is sure Harry must have heard them a thousand times in the last two hours, his responding smile is completely genuine. There is something to be said for his mother, Louis thinks, and her unflinching ability to make people feel at ease.

“My mother and sister have told me a lot about you,” Harry says. “Thank you very much for hosting them this evening.”

“No need to thank me,” Johannah assures him immediately. “We were glad to have them. Have you met my daughter?” she gestures to Félicité, who takes a hesitant step forward.

Harry shakes his head. “I haven’t had the pleasure,” he says, inclining his head now to Félicité. 

Félicité’s cheeks go a little pink and she smiles. “Félicité Tomlinson,” she says.

Harry directs his attention almost immediately to his mother and sister, once introductions are finished, but Louis can’t help but linger on the exchange. In an ideal world, Harry and Félicité are the ones who should have matched. Their parents would have certainly accepted the match, years of history and friendship ensuring that no one would protest despite the slight disparity in status. The idea ferments even as Louis’ thinks it, settling awkwardly in his stomach.

Anne takes a step forward, distracting Louis from his own toxic thoughts. “How — how was the service?” she asks.

A short silence follows. Louis recalls what Harry had said outside the church — “ _don’t know how to run an estate; don’t know how to talk to my mother_ ,” — and assumes Harry is taking the moment to chose his words wisely. He glances to Louis, just for a fraction of a second, and what he gains from it, Louis doesn’t know.

“It ran smoothly,” Harry says eventually. “And while I did not know many of the people who attended, Louis assures me that they were all good people.”

The room directs their attention to him, so Louis nods hurriedly. “Almost everyone from town, milady,” he says. “And several whom I recognised from London. He was well seen off.”

Anne nods, seemingly satisfied. “Good,” she says quietly, “I’m glad.”

Johannah frowns, though. “I didn’t realise you and Louis knew each other.”

Louis flushes and a similar pinkness appears at the back of Harry’s neck. “We don’t,” Harry says hastily. “I mean, that is, we didn’t.”

“I introduced myself after the service,” Louis explains.

He thinks it will be left there, but he should have known better. When he glances once more at Harry, the boy’s face is impossibly soft.

“And I am glad he did,” Harry says, watching him resolutely. “I have been incredibly glad for your son’s company this evening.” 

By all that’s mighty, Louis thinks. How in the name of God was he supposed to cope with this?

Who knows how long they might have stared at each other, if Johannah hadn’t broken their reverie.

“Well, then I’m glad.” She says. She shares a look with Anne before turning back to the two of them, smiling happily. “You know, we’d always hoped the two of you would become friends.”

And if that isn’t a lesson in being careful what you wish for, then Louis doesn’t know what is.  

.

After several minutes of small talk, Anne takes a deep breath. She gathers herself up, taking a second to neaten the cards on her side of the table and finish the cup of tea in front of her, before looking pointedly to her children.

“It is time for us to make a move,” she says, with a graceful smile at Johannah. “Thank you so much for having us. You’ve made a difficult night far easier than I thought it was to be.” 

Johannah smiles, her eyes sad and sympathetic. It’s a look Louis assumes Anne is used to, by now.

Gemma stands as well, thanking Félicité as she does so, and Louis guesses that is the end of it. Harry will surely follow in their footsteps, say his goodbyes and leave Louis with his thoughts.

But Harry, Louis is learning, seems to possess a proclivity for being contrary. Instead of thanking Mark and leading his family back outside, he turns to his mother.

“If you’ll permit me,” he says carefully. “I’d like a moment to speak with Louis in private.”

Anne looks as startled as Louis feels.

What? Harry would like what?

She recovers faster than Louis does, which is certainly a good thing. Louis’ brain feels stuck on a loop, his thoughts reduced back to a frantic mess.

“Of course,” she says. She doesn’t really have a choice, not as far as society is concerned. Harry is, after all, the head of their family now. Harry doesn’t seem the type to press it though. “Will you be long?”

Harry shakes his head. “Not more than five minutes, I promise. We will meet you at the carriages.” He turns his attention to Mark and Johannah. “You don’t mind if I steal your son away, just for one moment?”

Mark laughs and shakes his head.

Louis feels a little frail.

“Of course not,” Mark says.

Harry turns to Louis then, and Louis realises it is to him to direct them from there. He is the one to find somewhere private for them to speak.

It feels like his panic is written in every inch of his face, but none of his family seem concerned. They’re all smiling, probably happy that his and Harry’s relationship is blossoming so quickly. Johannah and Anne are practically glowing. Ha, Louis thinks. If only they knew.

Still, it won’t do to stand there and stay silent. So he swallows thickly, takes a deep breath and smiles. “It was lovely meeting you,” he says to Anne and Gemma, before turning his attention to Harry.

Harry’s eyes are bright again.

He takes another deep breath. He needs it. “This way,” he says.

Somewhere between the door and the corridor, Louis’ heart climbs into his throat. Somehow, it still manages to beat three times its normal speed. He doesn’t look to make sure that Harry is following him, but he knows that he is. His footfalls are soft, but not silent, and even if they were the lines on Louis’ hip are thrumming, alive enough to ensure that their match is very close by.

He leads them to the parlour. Only a few of the candles inside are lit, so Louis distracts himself for the first few moments by moving around the room and lighting several more.

It’s still too dark when he turns to face Harry.

The lamp light bathes his face in an orange glow, painting his skin an ethereal gold. His features are the kind described in Charlotte’s silly bedtime stories, when she’d sit down with the younger girls and make up tales of handsome gentlemen waiting to whisk them all away.

Louis has no idea what to do with him, or even what to say. He lights another candle.

“Aren’t the servants supposed to do that?” Harry asks, breaking the silence.

“What?”

“The candles. I thought that was a servant’s job.”

There’s is nothing offensive in his tone. He sounds simply curious, perhaps a tad confused, and maybe even interested in Louis’ answer.

He’s an absolute conundrum.

“It is,” Louis replies — because Lord knows he’d rather talk about something trivial like this than anything else. “But we won’t be here for long, and we told them we wouldn’t need this room tonight. There is no need to disturb them when I can do it with no trouble.”

Harry holds a hand out. “Let me help then,” he says easily.

It strikes Louis then that this boy is a stranger. A complete and total stranger, someone that Louis knows absolutely nothing about. And yet, here they were. Sharing the same small space in the poorly lit parlour of Louis’ family home, with twin marks searing at their skin.

He passes over the candle slowly, carefully. “Watch the wax,” he says as it exchanges hands. “It drips.”

The smile Harry shoots him suggests that he’s probably handled a wax candle at some point in his life prior to this. Louis feels his face flush — suddenly grateful for the shadows, if they can hide at least that.

“I will,” Harry says anyway.

He steps forward, just a little closer than Louis was expecting. It startles him, his proximity, his presence, his _height_ , and Louis lets out a little gasp. The laugh that earns him in return is a lovely little chuckle, a deep rumble that seems to roll straight out of Harry’s chest.

Louis takes a swift step backwards. “Sorry,” he says, not at all sure what he’s apologising for.

Harry’s chuckles subside, but his smile doesn’t. “Don’t worry about it,” he says.

Then he takes another step closer. This one is not an accident. It is calculated, purposeful. He leaves barely a foot of space between them, standing so close that Louis has to tilt his head a little to look up and meet his eyes.

His lips are a pink that Louis hasn’t seen before, Louis notices. It’s nice, though. A lovely pink.

“How many would you like lit?”

Louis blinks. “What?”

Harry’s lips look particularly lovely, stretched out in a smile. “Candles,” he clarifies, gently amused. “How many would you like me to light?”

“Oh. Oh! Right, uhm, two? Maybe three more?”

“Two? Or three?”

“Three,” Louis says, this time with a certain nod of his head. He can’t let himself be lost in this.

Harry takes a step backwards and moves to find the unlit candles. He lights two on the mantle above the unlit fireplace and one closer to the windowsill. “Enough?” he asks.

Louis has no idea what he’s doing. None. And, for that matter, he doesn’t know what Harry’s doing either.

Still, he nods. The room is still too dark, but they’re not supposed to linger anyway.

Harry moves closer again, although this time he maintains a more reasonable distance. He holds the candle out to Louis. “This is yours?”

Louis takes it with a flush. He sets it carefully down in its place and takes the moment to allow himself to breath. You must remain calm, he reminds himself. And think of your family.

The stinging at his hip is particularly persistent, now that they are alone. And it certainly doesn’t want Louis’ attention on anything else.

Louis presses his hand to it in some misguided attempt to soothe it. He’s touched his marks before without anyone noticing, but he still shouldn’t be surprised that Harry sees. He does, after all, have a vested interest.

“It’s on your hip?” he asks.

Louis’ hand jerks away and he stares at Harry, scandalised. The last time someone asked him about his mark, he was playing with sticks in the mud.

Harry is the one to blush then. “Sorry,” he says. He brings his hand up to his hair and seems oddly frustrated when he remembers that it’s tied up. “I didn’t mean to — it’s just. Mine is, you know? On my hip, I mean?”

And fuck it all if that knowledge doesn’t spark through Louis like wildfire.

“I wondered,” Harry keeps talking. “Where yours might be, when we were in the carriage. But I suppose it figures, that we match. They match in every other way, don’t they?”

Louis mark seems to know it’s being spoken about, if the way it stings at Louis’ skin is anything to go by. It feels like he’s on fire. Harry is so close, is the thing. Further than he was, of course, but that was nothing Louis couldn’t fix. Just two, maybe three, little steps and he’d be in Louis’ arms, for Louis to _touch —_

He thinks of his sisters and keeps his feet planted firmly on the floor.

“How can you be so calm?” he asks. He wants to ask something else, blurt out any of the thousands of other questions that demand to be answered, but he doesn’t have the words.

He watches Harry react — watches the way his words pull at his eyebrows and how his eyes widen a little. He doesn’t know what any of it means, doesn’t know the boy well enough to distinguish his emotions from any other — but in the very same second, the sight of it feels more familiar than home.

“I don’t know,” Harry replies. He looks honest, open and vulnerable. The same boy that had been crying his eyes out behind a church, barely an hour ago. “I just am.”

“But how?” Louis demands. “How?”

He asks because he has to know. He _needs_ to know. Perhaps then he’ll figure out how to tamper down the frantic stress that pounds through his veins, the overwhelming desire to run both to and from this lovely, lovely stranger.

Harry shakes his head though. His secrets remain, for the moment, his. “Truly,” he says. “I dont know.”

But that’s — that’s not good enough.

Louis’ whole life has been turned upside down in one single moment. He’d been happy before, happy with the idea of marrying who his parents told him to and falling in love afterwards. So he says, “I don’t believe you.”

Outlandishly, this makes Harry smile. More than smile. The grin that breaks out across his features pulls at his lips and stretches his pink lips thin, creasing the corners of his eyes and dimpling his cheeks.

“I’m just happy!” The words burst out of him, like it was impossible to hold them in. Once they start, they don’t stop. “I thought today was going to be the worst day of my life, and it was — it so nearly was, but then, then I found you. You’re here, and you’ve always been here and I’m — I’m so glad.”

The words hang in the air, exuberant and gleeful.

Louis wishes he’d never asked.

Holy _God,_ he wishes he’d never asked.

Harry is an Earl. Harry has a family and an estate and friends and a life, the same as Louis does, and Harry is supposed to be as terrified of this as Louis is. 

But he’s not.

“Harry,” he says. The words feels as hollow as his chest does. “We — you know we can’t do this.”

The smile, that beautiful smile, falls. Only a little, like he’s confused. “What?” Harry asks. He looks completely bewildered, like he can’t possibly fathom what Louis might mean.

Louis heaves a rattling breath and feels it in his bones.

“We can’t,” he says — and he’s not being eloquent by any means, but the way that Harry’s face is turning suggests that he’s being clear enough. “This, us. It can’t happen.”

“Louis,” Harry scoffs incredulously. “Of course it can, what are you—?”

“It won’t, then,” Louis says. He thinks of his sisters and his mother and _Mark_ and remains resolute. “I won’t let it.”

It’s something awful, the way Harry’s face moves then. The way it goes from amused confusion to stark, sad, shock. His chest seems to heave with it, as he takes in Louis’ words.

“You — you don’t want it?”

He’s a stranger, for Christ’s sake. A stranger that Louis has known for barely an hour. And yet that look, and his breathless disbelief, leaves Louis feeling so overwhelmed it winds him.

“No,” he says, “I don’t.”

He is clear. His voice doesn’t wobble or waver, and he thinks that will be the end of it.

Harry watches him like he’s mad. “ _Why_?”

“What?”

“Why— _How?_ How could you not want this, did you not feel it?”

And that’s just a foolish question. “Of course I did,” Louis says, because Harry was _there_ and Harry saw what happened, just as it was happening to him. “Don’t be silly, you know—”

“Then why?” Harry interrupts. “Is it — is it me?”

Louis laughs out loud, that thought is so outlandish. “No, of course not.”

Harry shakes his head. He looks confused, and disappointed, and more than that he just looks sad. “Then I don’t — I don’t understand.” 

Louis swallows, struggling with his now dry throat. Harry isn’t a child; Louis shouldn’t have to explain this to him. Harry knows what it would do to them. “Don’t — don’t make this harder than it already is,” he says.

“What do you mean?” Harry demands. His voice takes a fiery edge now, and it takes Louis off guard. “How is it hard? You either want it or you don’t — neither of those things are hard.”

Louis shakes his head. “You don’t understand.”

He expected Harry to argue at that, or at least protest. What he gets, as Harry’s voice falls quiet again, is far worse. “ _Of course_ , I don’t.” His eyes are round again, and there’s a curve to his lip that’s far too similar to the one Louis had seen when Harry had been crying.

Louis flounders in the face of it. “It’s more complicated than you think.”

“No it isn’t,” Harry says stubbornly. When Louis opens his mouth — lost for words — Harry interrupts him before he gets the chance. “It _isn’t_.”

“—Harry, please.”

“You want this,” Harry speaks over him. He must see it in the way that Louis can no longer meet his eye, can’t stand still. “You just think you shouldn’t.”

Louis feels the way he assumes a fox might, right at the end of a hunt. “I don’t—”

“Is it because of what they’ll say?” Harry demands. “Because it doesn’t matter. They’re wrong.”

“It doesn’t matter?!” Louis echoes incredulously. “You think it doesn’t matter?”

“It doesn’t! How can something that feels like this be wrong, _how_ Louis? How can you say that this isn’t right, when you felt exactly what I felt? I’ve never experienced anything like that in my life — it was like _waking up_.”

Louis doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t have the answers to any of those questions, and he certainly doesn’t know how to handle the knowledge that Harry’s life might have realigned itself the same way Louis’ had.

“Of course it matters what they’ll say!” he hisses. “Have you thought about any of this? You have a family, _I_ have a family. I’m not putting this on them.”

That, it seems, is what it takes to get through to him. Harry, who’d been halfway through forming a reply, snaps his mouth shut and sets his jaw.

Silence hangs in between them for a long, long moment.

“Right,” Harry says then. He sounds stoic and strong until he suddenly doesn’t anymore. His voice breaks, when he says, “Okay.”

He nods to himself, his eyes blinking quickly, and straightens his shoulders.

“It was good speaking with you,” he says, not even looking Louis in the eye. “Thank you for tonight. I’ll be sure not to — to inconvenience you any further.”

He spins and turns on his heel, vanishing out the door before Louis can protest. It’s a good thing, or a bad thing, Louis knows, but he can’t for the life of him figure out which.

He lingers in the parlour for a long while after that, fiddling with the candles until he hears the sound of wheels rolling on gravel, and tries very hard not to feel like a coward.

♣ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response so far has been absolutely amazing!! I'm so excited to hear that you guys are excited to see what happens next, I hope it lives up to your expectations! Keep it up and tell me what you though of this chapter? 
> 
> ps. reblog the tumblr post if you looooove meeeeee x 
> 
> [fic post](http://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/post/139572796927) | [tumblr](http://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

♣

Three days pass before Louis sees Harry again.

Louis spends most of the time indoors. Mark’s study is quiet, a little way away from the hustle and bustle of the main house, and small. It’s filled with all the books Mark has ever read. There aren’t many, and they’re certainly not all interesting, but they’re more than enough for Louis. He loses himself in the numbers and the letters, the accounts lodgers and estate records, and downright refuses to think about anything else.

And if there are moments when he can’t quite keep his focus, moments when he loses his place in line and has to start again at the top of the page, then those moments are simply opportunities for him to take a step back and remind himself that he made the right decision. 

He did.

He made the right decision.

All he needs to do is think about Charlotte, happily away and living her new life, to know that. How could he even think of doing something that might have robbed her of that? That would certainly rob his younger sisters of the opportunity.

Given the choice between his sisters’ continued happiness and his own, the decision is already made. He can ignore the hollow feeling in his chest, the lingering sense of loss, if he focuses on that.

He does wish that there was a little more literature on the matter, though. There are a few books in the study about soulmates, tiny little volumes that go easily unnoticed and would be entirely inappropriate if it weren’t for the fact that Mark and Johannah were paired by fate.

Louis devours them on the first night, tearing through the pages almost begging for answers to leap off the page.

It’s mad, after all, that his body should be reacting like this. His mark reacts to his decision and his self imposes exile with apparent rage. When he checks it in the mirror it doesn’t look any different — the same black tangle of elegant lines that Louis has grown up with — but it sears at his hip like a burn, hot and angry.

Take it back, it demands of him. Take it back now.

But Louis can’t do that. He can’t and he won’t. And, when the answers don’t reveal themselves, he sets the books aside.

So he stays in the study, only occasionally wishing for a larger collection of books that might offer some distraction from the hideous mess that his insides have become.

This, ultimately, is his downfall.

He takes his meals with the family only when he can work up the energy to pretend. He attends dinner every evening, of course, but lunch and breakfast quickly become too tiring for him. His family remain blissfully oblivious to it all and Louis would have it stay that way. It wouldn’t do for them to figure it out now, because Louis is too distracted to follow a simple conversation.

But it also won’t do to stir suspicion, or have them think that he has taken ill. As such, despite his better interests, on Thursday morning Louis drags himself away from his small space of solitude and towards the dining room for breakfast.

Mark brings it up then.

“Ah, Louis,” Mark says, when Louis walks inside. He is the only one at the table. The girls, Louis thinks, must have already been and gone. Johannah had mentioned something about taking them to the tailor in town, to buy some new dresses for Phoebe and Daisy, so Louis assumes that’s where they’ve vanished to.  “You’ve pulled yourself away from the books, I see?”

Louis has the decency to flush. He hasn’t been taking great lengths to remain subtle, but it chastens him to think his presence has been so obviously missed.

“Sorry,” he says, as he takes his seat. “I know I’ve been absent the last few days, I’ve just—”

Mark waves his apology away before he can even begin to come up with a good excuse. “Don’t apologise,” he says. “I’m glad to see you taking such an interest.”

Louis smiles hesitantly, nodding his head and electing not to reply. He begins to butter his bread.

“It’s excellent timing as a matter of fact,” Mark continues. “I was planning on coming up to speak with you this morning anyway.”

Louis frowns. “Oh?”

“I think we have an opportunity here, you see.” Mark sets his paper down and leans forward, devoting his attention entirely to Louis. “With Des’ boy.”

It is entirely irrational how quickly Louis’ body reacts to that. Within an instant, his heart is once again lodged in his throat.

He clears his throat, glancing down at his food and hoping that his physical reaction hadn’t been so obvious. Blessedly, Mark doesn’t seem fazed.

“What do you mean by opportunity?” Louis asks. The word itself leaves an odd taste in Louis’ mouth.

Mark shakes his head. “That is perhaps the wrong word to use,” he says. “I simply mean that this is a chance for you.”

Louis’ pulse thunders.

“I’ve invited the boy over to join us this afternoon,” Mark continues, completely unaware of the way that his son has stopped breathing. “You’ve spent so much time going over the accounts these past few days, and I think you’re the perfect person to teach him about it.”

A great deal of blood rushes straight to Louis’ head. It blocks Mark’s voice out entirely, for a few chaotic moments, making his limbs feel oddly light. He presses a flat palm to his hip, hoping the pressure will somehow stem the pain radiating from his mark. It seems almost impossible to gather his thoughts.

He had known, of course, that Mark had plans to assist Harry with his transition. He’d even known that they’d spoken, some time in the last few days, about how to go about it all. That’s why he’d segmented himself in the damn study, to _avoid_ getting caught up in it.

Best laid plans, a voice in his head sings errantly.

He clears his throat. His voice, when he speaks, sounds remarkably normal. “When, ah—? When will he be coming?” 

“Within the next hour or so, I should think,” Mark says. “I told him any time would suit. Does that give you enough time to sort everything?”

Louis nods absently. 

“Good, then!” Mark says. “It will help him to learn from someone his age. You have the perspective he needs.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Mark explains. “You know what it’s like to be taught these things, don’t you? And as a result, you’ll be able to anticipate which areas will be difficult for him in turn.”

It makes an odd kind of sense, Louis begrudgingly admits.

“Besides,” Mark continues. “You’ll know the accounts like the back of your hand now, what with the time you’ve spent up there. It’s been excellent to see you taking the initiative with this, Louis. It hasn’t gone unnoticed. Your mother and I are very impressed to see you so focused.”

They wouldn’t be, Louis thinks, when they learnt his motive.

Hopefully it never comes to that.

.

He leaves breakfast soon after that, his appetite gone and replaced with a vague sense of panicked excitement. Clenching and unclenching his hands, trying to shake off the feeling, he makes his way back upstairs to the study.

He’s left the room dark the past few days, electing to read by candlelight rather than open the curtains. When he does pull them open, the situation only becomes that much more alarming.

It’s not a mess in so many words, but it certainly isn’t tidy. He’s strewn books and ledgers and paper around the room with no rhyme or reason, and has absolutely no idea where to begin cleaning up. That doesn’t even account for the work he’s supposed to show Harry. There, too, he is at a loss.

With no idea what exactly he’s supposed to be showing Harry, he pulls out a few of the records he has more familiarity with — most of them recent, the ones that Louis has personal experience with. Some of the later ones he’s even written himself, which should make the task a little easier.

He tidies the rest the best that he can. Most he can fit back onto the bookshelf, even though he knows he’ll have to reorganise it later. Mark has all his books, particularly the estate accounts, kept in a specific order, one that Louis has completely abandoned here and now. What doesn’t fit on the bookshelf — the unfortunate result of Louis’ haphazard attempt at filling the shelves — he piles onto the corner of the writing desk in the middle of the room.

He is surveying the room, trying to figure out what to do next, when he glances out the window and sees the approaching carriage. His heartbeat ticks, an undeniable jolt of excitement flaring within him, that he swallows down immediately.

It’s just nerves, he tells himself. Nothing has changed.

The study is as good as it will get, it seems. He gives the room one last once over and nods, feeling satisfied that Harry won’t be able to tell that Louis’ practically been living there for the last few days. Then he heads back downstairs, a sense of tingling apprehension bubbling in his gut.

When he reaches the front door, Mark is already directing Harry inside.

“Ah!” he says, when he sees Louis, “Here he is now! Louis, I was just telling Harry about our plans for the day.” 

Harry looks different in the daylight. His hair is curly, Louis notices first, and long — far longer than Louis would have guessed seeing it tied up. It’s lighter than Louis expected, as well. His skin has a sun-kissed tinge that Louis hadn’t noticed either. His eyes are the same, though.

“Harry,” Louis greets him.

Harry nods his head in reply, “Louis.” His gaze is as penetrative as ever, like he’s trying to see straight inside Louis’ head with a simple look. “Good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” Louis says.

Despite everything, it is. The nerves that tug at every one of his senses mean nothing, not when just the sight of Harry alleviates the pressure that’s sat on Louis’ chest for days. That awful, inexplicable feeling of loss lessens and the pain that has tormented his hip seems to settle in an instant.

“You’ll be in Louis’ hands for the moment,” Mark says. “He’s going to go over a few of the Mayfield records with you, and we’ll go from there. Of course, you’re welcome to join us for lunch.”

Harry bows his head politely. “Thank you for the invitation,” he says. “But I think my mother is expecting me home.”

“Some other time then,” Mark says. He claps a hand down on Louis’ shoulder, his smile bright. “Do let me know if you have any questions or concerns. I’ll be on the grounds, if you need me.”

He shakes Harry’s hand again before he departs, leaving the two younger boys to an empty, awkward silence. They watch each other for a long moment, before Harry opens his mouth to say something.

Louis interrupts him before he can. “The study’s upstairs,” he says hurriedly, “This way.”

He’s never been scared of someone else speaking before, he thinks as he leads the way up the stairs. At the same time, he’s never wanted to hear someone speak so badly in his life. Perhaps Harry’s voice is different in the daylight, too. Maybe Louis misremembers his low, slow timbre.

When they reach the study, he pauses at the doorway. “After you,” he says.

_Christ_ , the way Harry watches him is indescribable; analytical and sharp, soft and imploring all at once.

Louis shuts the door behind him.

“ _Louis_ ,” Harry says again, instantly, already moving towards him. It’s a far cry from their cold greeting downstairs — this is filled with something, a desperation that makes Louis’ flush hot.

“Don’t,” Louis says.

Harry freezes, only a foot away. The look on his face is something awful.

“Please,” he says. “Please, we’re alone. What does it matter if we—?”

“It matters,” Louis says sternly. 

Harry’s shoulders drop and he looks away sharply. Louis watches as he blinks, several times over, before ultimately giving up and turning his back to Louis completely.

“I thought,” he begins unsteadily; “I thought you might have changed your mind.”

Louis swallows thickly. Shakes his head. “I haven’t.”

Selfishly, Louis is glad that he can’t see Harry’s face in the moment that follows. Seeing the way he holds himself is enough — the stiff set of his back and the jerky nod of his head. For a long, drawn out moment, the room is silent.

Harry takes an audible breath.

“Right,” he says then, “Silly of me.” He keeps his back to Louis for another moment before turning around. “Shall we look at the accounts, then?”

Louis watches him for a cautious moment before nodding. With the door shut behind them, it feels a little like he’s trapped with a wild animal. He doesn’t know what Harry is going to do next, or what he’s going to say.

He clenches his hands again, digging his nails into his palm. Harry is just a boy — just his neighbour, if nothing else.

“I thought we’d start with the estates takings,” Louis says. Finding his footing, he walks over to the desk and lifts up the correct leather binder. “These are the records for January to June last year. It should give us a good idea of what you might expect in the coming months.”

This, at least, he can do.

.

It goes well, for the most part.

Mayfield is a small estate — far smaller than Rosewood — but they are run in similar ways. Mark spends his days monitoring the farms on the property, speaking to tenants and ensuring that everything is kept in tip-top shape. Then there is the house itself to consider: the paying of staff, the running expense and general upkeep.

Harry will have to do all this for a far larger area, and he will have to do it well if he wants to earn any respect. The time he’s spent at Eton, while positive in many ways, does not help him much in this regard.

So they go over the books. Maintaining a careful distance at all times, Louis explains to him how Mayfield was run from January to June of the previous year. Once they have considered all the finances, all the problems and their solutions, they move onto the books for the July - December period. This time Louis lets Harry take the lead, explaining back to him what the numbers are and what they mean.

He’s a quick learner, Louis finds, one with a terrific head for numbers and a penchant for problem solving. He has a habit of tapping his fingers when he thinks, and biting his lip whenever he hits a wall.

He takes his jacket off halfway through explaining the month of August to Louis, pausing only when he sees Louis startle at the movement. 

His jacket still half on, he frowns. “Sorry,” he says, his cheeks tinging pink. “I didn’t — It’s just a bit hot. Do you mind?”

They haven’t said much to each other directly. Not really. Despite talking for almost an hour now, nothing that they’ve said has been conversational. It’s all been numbers, and facts, the two of them stringently avoiding discussion of anything else.

Now, addressed directly, they fall back into awkwardness. Louis shakes his head too quickly. “No, no,” he says hastily, “Go ahead.”

Hesitantly, Harry shrugs the jacket off completely. He moves to the corner behind the door, hanging the jacket off the hook he finds there. The shirt he’s wearing underneath is a simple white button down with a low collar — a garment Louis has seen on himself and his friends one thousand times before — but for some reason, Louis finds himself transfixed.

Here, with the light from the window shining onto him, the fabric turns slightly translucent. It shows nothing scandalous, but it does offer a slight glimpse of the outline of Harry’s torso. And when he walks, the fabric pulls taught in places, wrapping around his body. The sight of it makes Louis’ mouth go dry.

Lord Almighty, he thinks when he catches himself. He looks away jerkily, cracking his neck with the force of it. What the hell is he _thinking_ staring like that?

It only gets worse when Harry returns to the table, unbuttoning his sleeves cuffs and rolling them up to his elbow.

His skin is a golden brown, peppered with a light dusting of brown hair. Muscles move when Harry sits down again and reaches for the ledger. Louis is struck, then, by how large Harry’s hands are. The stretch of his palm and the reach of his long fingers. He wonders if his skin is warm.

This time, when he jerks himself from the thought, he does it almost bodily. Harry pauses and glances up at him, bewildered in an almost tentative fashion.

“Are you alright?” he asks slowly.

Louis swallows. “Yes, fine,” he says, albeit a little distractedly. He feels a little stifled by his clothes, like he’s wearing too many layers on a hot day. Harry had the right idea, it seems, so Louis follows his lead and shrugs off his jacket.

They return to the task at hand for another half hour, before they catch up to the current books. Louis searches for something else to discuss, thumbing through the pages one last time before realising that he and Harry have nothing left to talk about.

He doesn’t feel disappointed. He _doesn’t_.

“Is that everything then?” Harry asks.

Louis nods. It’s irritating, that so much of his attention has to be devoted to these bizarre feelings, that he can’t just treat Harry like he would any other man. He shuffles the ledgers together, making a neat pile. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” Louis says. “I’m sure my father has a long list of things to go over with you.”

“For us, then?” Harry asks.

Louis eyes dart up.

Harry is watching him, stretched back in his chair, his gaze as careful as ever. “Is that it?”

The innocent question is anything but, and Louis has no idea how to answer. On the surface it’s easy, effortless, but there is a steel note to the boy’s voice and a glint in his eye that makes the added layers only too clear.

Louis knows what he should say. It isn’t so easy, though, because this _isn’t_ it. They’re neighbours and, if Harry decides to keep the Rosewood House, then they’ll be neighbours for a long time yet. Mayfield is part of Louis’ heritage, something that has belonged to generations of his ancestors, so he certainly doesn’t have the choice to leave.

If Harry is intent on keeping the house, then it is nowhere near the end for the two of them.

But that’s not the question Harry is asking, so it’s not the question that Louis answers.

“Yes,” he says, “It is.”

Something flickers in Harry’s eyes, a flash of disappointment that Louis feels swell in his own chest. Louis ignores it, though, and focuses on how foolish it is of Harry to linger on such hopes. As if they could have any semblance of a future together.

It’s the kind of blind optimism that Louis has always thought stupid.

He doesn’t think Harry is stupid, though. That might be part of the problem.

Louis stands his ground, though, and holds Harry’s gaze despite the weight of it. His hip stings again and, although the feeling has been mostly painless since Harry’s arrival, Louis can’t completely hold the flinch that startles out of him.

Harry notices.

For a horrifying moment, Louis thinks that Harry will ask about it again. It isn’t as if Harry doesn’t have the right to ask — the same mark scars his skin, after all. But Louis doesn’t know how to handle that. He doesn’t know how to handle him at all, for that matter.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he stays quiet, musing over thoughts that remain completely hidden from Louis.

“Well,” Louis says, standing. He fights not to feel awkward under the scrutiny, reaching for his jacket. “Mark should be outside if there’s anything you’d like to ask him—?”

“Can I ask for one thing, at least?” Harry says, out of the blue.

Louis pauses, hands fisting in the fabric of his jacket as he watches Harry hesitantly.

“From you, I mean,” Harry continues, before Louis can even ask. “Not Mark.”

Louis is so, so afraid of whatever’s going on inside this boy’s head. He’d be humiliated by that, if he wasn’t so warily focused on Harry.

Slowly, despite himself, Louis nods.

Harry stands, instead of saying anything. He straightens his shirt and smoothes his hands down his chest, as though he’s preparing himself for something — or worse, as though he’s nervous. 

He takes an aborted step closer, stepping away from the desk.

“Could you just—?” he tries first, “Could you touch me?”

Louis reels back.

“Not like that!” Harry rushes onwards. “ _Christ_. Just — your hand, or something. Just something.”

That is a bad idea, Louis thinks. A very, very bad idea.

There’s a crinkle at Harry’s forehead though, a little frown of frustration that tugs at Louis’ heartstrings. “I need to figure out what this is,” Harry implores. “This — this _stupid_ thing that I’m feeling, I need to know that it’s real.” 

Louis gapes at him.

“Please,” Harry says softly. “Just — just let me touch you.”

This is why people don’t touch, Louis realises. The sane ones, at least — the sensible ones — don’t want to risk _this._

And why would they?

“Harry,” Louis says slowly.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to say next, doesn’t even have a semblance of an idea, but it’s apparently enough for Harry. His jaw snaps shut and he takes a step backward, looking down and digging his fingers into the flesh of his thigh.

“God,” he says, leaning his weight against the desk, defeated. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have, I shouldn’t have asked.”

He presses the heel of his free hand to his eyes for a long moment, like he’s trying to physically stop himself thinking. Louis is familiar with the feeling.

“Sorry,” Harry says again, after a second. “Sorry, I should just go.”

He doesn’t make any move to leave, doesn’t even shift his weight from the writing desk, but something in Louis flares up, panicked.

“No,” he says, before he can stop himself.  

Harry’s head jerks up. He looks tired, and confused, and _definitely_ surprised. “What?” he says.

Louis takes in a shaky breath. “Just — just stop. Wait.”

He stares at Harry’s hands. Or, hand, more specifically — the one that’s still stretched out over his thigh. It’s just a hand, after all. 

“Louis...? What are you—?”

Louis shushes him and takes a step closer.

“It’s just a hand,” he says out loud. He tears his gaze away from Harry’s long fingers, up to Harry’s face. Harry’s green eyes are wide, bewildered. Hopeful. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Tentatively, Harry shakes his head.

Louis nods and takes another step.

“Hands are fine,” he says, more to himself than to Harry. “Hands don’t mean anything, they’re not important. People touch hands all the time.”

They don’t. Louis knows they don’t and Harry knows they don’t.

Neither of them mention it

Louis comes to a shaky stop right in front of Harry. Leaning against the desk, the younger boy seems a little bit shorter, and it’s comforting. Louis doesn’t feel quite so intimidated, standing so close. He licks his lips.

Harry tracks the movement.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Louis says again. “You understand?”

Slowly, Harry nods.

Louis looks at his other hand, the one Harry had used to rub his face. It’s hovering listlessly in the air between them now, fingers curled gently toward the palm, like Harry has had the sense to take it away from his eyes, but not the foresight to do anything more than that.

It’s there for the taking, Louis thinks. So he takes it.

Slipping his hand into Harry’s is the easiest and hardest thing Louis’ ever done. It’s so foolish, Louis thinks, to encourage Harry like this. A clean break is what they need, a stern line that neither of them can cross.

He doesn’t think it for long, though, because as soon as their hands touch all rational thought completely vanishes.

His skin is soft, and warm. Louis’ fingers curl over the side of Harry’s hand, slipping into the open space between Harry’s thumb and index finger. Harry takes a firm grip as soon as he can, his fingers folding over Louis’ and squeezing gently.

It consumes him, the feeling that follows. It’s a kind of relief Louis’ never experience before — something that floods through every inch of him, leaves no place untouched. The pain that’s hassled at his hip vanishes, replaced by a pleasant, floaty feeling. It soothes through him and Louis is instantly reminded that, for all intents and purposes, this boy was made for him. 

Harry seems to sink into it. He caresses his thumb across the top of Louis’ fingers, all the tension in his shoulders leaking out. His eyes flutter shut and Louis instinctively follows his lead, losing himself for one, mad moment.

“ _Christ_ ,” Harry says. His voice is quiet, reverent.

Louis licks his lips and swallows. If he wavers on his feet slightly, well, Harry’s eyes are closed so he’ll never know. “What?”

Louis’ blinks his eye open barely one second before Harry, and is therefore blessed with the sight of his dazed green eyes as they refocus.

“You want this,” Harry says, like it’s a revelation.

Louis’ fingers tighten around Harry’s palm. His heart thunders like mad, practically threatening to burst from his chest. “What?” he says.

He knows what. Harry’s words spin about in his head, a frantic little dance that Louis’ can’t completely follow.  He tugs a little at his hand, hoping that some space might clear his thoughts, but Harry’s grip is unrelenting. Not rough, or harsh in anyway — simply _firm._

“It’s okay,” Harry doesn’t clarify because though they both know very well that Louis heard him. “You don’t have to be worried. This is good.”

It’s almost impossible to disagree. Harry’s touch comes with some kind of endorphin, desperate to carry Louis off and away. Part of him wants to let it take him; wants to push away any protest that might give him pause and lose himself in it, in this bizarre, beautiful boy.

He’s not wrong, either. Louis does want this, or, at least, a part of him does. It’s a large part — the same part that had kept him awake at night, as a boy, tracing his fingertips over his mark and wondering about its unknown twin — and it wants to take every single thing that Harry is willing to give.

Louis wobbles again. It brings his face dangerously close to Harry’s. The pink of his lips seems like something entirely new, this close up.

“I know that you’re scared,” Harry continues, when Louis doesn’t say anything, “But there’s nothing to be afraid of. We can make this work, I _swear_.”  

Louis gazes up at him and desperately, desperately wants to believe him.

He can’t though. Even with the euphoria of Harry’s touch coursing through his veins, he knows better.

“We can’t,” he says quietly.

Harry’s eyes crease sadly at the sides. He’s shaking his head before Louis’ even finished speaking. “We _can_ ,” he says, “I promise.”

Louis lets out a wet laugh. What kind of promise could it be, he thinks, this whisper between veritable strangers? He feels exhausted, dry to the very bone.

He doesn’t let go of Harry’s hand.

“You don’t even know me,” he says.

Harry doesn’t hesitate. “I know,” he says, “but I’d like to know you very much.”

Louis stares at him. How this boy can wear Louis’ mark is beyond him. In all the places that Louis has always been sharp and unapproachable, Harry seems made entirely of honesty and earnestness.

“Give me the chance, Louis,” Harry insists quietly. His hand squeezes tight around Louis’ once more. “Please.”

It astounds Louis, to realise that he wants that. He wants to know who Harry is; what makes him smile and what makes him laugh and what makes him cry. More than that, he wants Harry to know him as well. This boy could puzzle out all of his secrets in a day, Louis thinks, and there would be nothing Louis could do to stop him. Worse than that, he thinks he probably wouldn’t care. What manner of threat could those kind eyes, that gentle touch, possibly possess?

While Louis struggles to find the words — hell, to remember what words _are_ — Harry apparently takes his silence for an answer.

He clenches his jaw, readjusting his grip once more on Louis’ fingers. He squares his shoulders too, like he’s preparing for some kind of battle.

“I will convince you then,” Harry says.

Louis blinks. Then he blinks again. “What?”

Harry simply nods his head, seemingly resolute. “This is worth something, Louis,” he says. “It’s worth more than your dismissal. And I’m going to prove it.”

Right, Louis thinks. It will be a fight then. There is a hard line to Harry’s shoulders, a steely glint in his eye, but that is nothing that Louis can’t handle. He will simply have to figure out how to fight back.

It will be easier once he figures out how to pull his hand away from Harry’s, Louis thinks.

♣

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so, so much fun to write. I hope you liked it just as much! (hint: you should absolutely comment and tell me exactly what you thought with as many words as physically possible, srsly the limit does not exist ;) ;) ) 
> 
> [fic post](http://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/post/139572796927) | [tumblr](http://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the extra wait on this chapter! I promise to be more on top of it from now on, and I can say with 100% certainty that the next chapter will be posted this time a week from now! Thanks for being so patient with me!! 
> 
> I also wanna take this quick opportunity to share with you guys some of the amazing fanart I've recieved for this fic. So, to [Lenora](http://nasalouis.tumblr.com/) who drew [Regency!Harry](http://nasalouis.tumblr.com/post/140580128224/wont-you-wear-my-watermark-by-bottomlinsons) and to [jkeats](http://jkeats.tumblr.com/) who made some amazing [cover art](http://jkeats.tumblr.com/post/141055162741/wont-you-wear-my-watermark-by-bottomlinsons-the), thank you, thank you, thank you for your amazing time and effort. I'm completely overwhelmed by the idea that anyone likes this story so much, but more than that I'm entirely humbled.

♣

The memory of Harry’s touch lingers for hours. There is a phantom weight to it, pressing down across the backs of Louis’ fingers and into the centre of his palm. And no matter how many times he shakes his arms or clenches his fist, he cannot rid himself of it.

He tries, as well. He scrapes his nails across his skin, chasing the ghost of Harry’s fingers and trying to replace it with a stinging pain. Anything, he thinks, would be better than this. That only works for a few moments though, before the memory realigns itself and his hand starts to tingle once more. He tries not to pay it any mind after that, stealing away with yet another of Mark’s books and retiring to his room. He makes it through three pages peacefully, before he realises that he’s tracing the shadow of Harry’s grasp across the back of his own hand.

Fed up and frustrated, he sets the book aside. He begins to undress, suddenly feeling stifled by the fabric, accidentally popping a button from his collar in his haste.  He gives up with the buttons halfway down, his fumbling hands clearly not up to the task. He untucks his shirt instead, and removes his shoes, revelling in even that small release as he tries to clear his head.

There is a small pitcher of water left on the mantle above his fireplace and he moves straight for it. If he can do nothing else, then perhaps washing his hand will snatch away the thought of it. With the carafe in hand, he then takes it to his window and opens the room to the chilled night air.

Only, once faced with the opportunity to wash Harry’s touch away, he finds himself hesitating.

Harry’s hands had been warm, soft. They were the hands of someone privileged, hands that didn’t know what it was to work the fields or harden from use. His fingers — delicate and strong — were more suited to the turning the pages of books than handling a hammer and a nail. This wasn’t anything new. Of all the hands Louis had ever seen or touched — which consisted exclusively of his friends from university, his mother and father, his sisters, and one or two of the girls he’d kissed in his time — the fragile softness had been fairly standard. 

But none of them had ever lingered in his head so stubbornly. None of them had burned his skin as much as soothe it, with a single desperate touch.

The mark at his hip stung once again, as if to remind him of the blaringly obvious answer to his question.

None of them were his soulmate, he remembered. None of them had been made for him, sculpted and carved out of nothingness to form his perfect match, if Socrates was to be believed.

Defeated, Louis set the pitcher down and closed the window. Most of the heat from the fire had been sucked from the room while Louis had been lost in thought, so when he returns the pitcher to its place, he lingers by the flame for a little while. The heat seeps through the fabric of his trousers, climbing up his legs and eventually warming him to the core.

As it happens, Louis stares at his hand.

Harry can’t be held responsible for this, he realises. Not for the lingering feeling of his hand around Louis, nor for the touch itself. Of course, Harry had asked — begged, almost — but it had been Louis who relented. Louis was the one to make the final decision to lift his hand up to meet Harry’s.

To hold Harry entirely at fault would be a cowardly move; a decision born entirely from fear. Louis had been raised to accept responsibility for his actions, and there was no denying the part he’d played in the entire affair.

There was no denying his motives, either.

He’d wanted to know what it felt like — what Harry felt like. Something inside of him wanted to take Harry’s touch and commit it to memory, save the thought away and never part with it.

It was a foolish desire, one that Louis knew better than to follow. But simple thought couldn’t be so condemnable, could it?

Against all better judgement, Louis brings his hand up to his face. There is no imprint of Harry’s scent there — or if there was, Louis doesn’t know it well enough to tell. The lingering sense of touch does remain, though, and it’s with that in mind that Louis draws the backs of his fingers across the line of his jaw.

The pinprick of his stubble stings at his knuckles, but it isn’t an altogether unpleasant feeling. It isn’t unpleasant at all, as a matter of fact. It’s soothing, almost, the scrape of his hair across his tender fingers.

Is this what Harry would feel, if he were to touch Louis like this? Or would he notice something different? Would he notice the way that Louis’ stubble thins, the closer his fingers drag towards Louis’ jugular? Would he pause to feel the pulse pounding there?

Or would he perhaps take stock and move on? Would his fingers, once finished mapping the lines of Louis’ jaw, drag down his neck to search out the soft place where his shoulder begins?   

Louis mimics that move as well, his hand twisting as his nails begin to scratch the delicate skin pulled taut across his collarbones. His head falls a little to the side as his thumb skates across the nape of his neck, following the path of his fingers with a touch of gentle pressure.

There was strength in Harry’s fingers; Louis recalls, the kind of strength that doesn’t come from sitting in a library and reading books. Where Harry might have developed that kind of strength, Louis can’t be sure.

That thought makes Louis press a little harder as he guides his hand along his collarbone. His fingers trace the hollow there until he reaches his shoulder, curving his palm across the ball of it. It moves his shirt, already halfway undone, and pushes the fabric off. A chill runs through him, soothed almost instantly by the comforting warmth of the fire, and Louis pays it no more thought.

His eyes slide shut.

The feeling of his hand consumes him, sliding now across the flat of his chest and towards his sternum. His fingers sink into supple flesh, smoothing their way underneath his shirt and leaving a fire in their wake.

There was a look on Harry’s face, Louis recalls. It was a reverent, awed thing, a wide-eyed gaze that had made Louis feel like the centre of the universe. Is that how Harry would look at him now, like this, if he were here?

His wrist halts only when it meets the still buttoned front of his shirt, half-way down his chest. His fingers curl in protest, his fingernail scraping his sensitive nipple and making him jolt.

It sends a thrill through him, electrifying his nerves, and he reacts instinctively. Without thought, a soft whimper escapes him while his other hand flies to the front of his pants, pressing down insistently to relieve some of the blasted tension.

It is only when some of the pressure is allayed that he catches himself. His eyes fly open and he stares, for a long drawn out moment, at the hardness that his hand covers.

To say that he startles at the realisation would be an understatement. The noise that escapes him is more a shout than a gasp and he wrenches his hands away from himself so frantically that he almost loses his balance. He stumbles, only managing to catch himself in the last second, on the arm of his leather reading chair.

He cannot do this.

If he give in to something like this, it will only prove that he is incapable of controlling himself. To move from steadfastly refusing Harry mere hours previously to imagining how the touch of his hands might feel on him just adds more evidence against him. How can he claim to value his family and their future, only to sin like this when no one was looking?

He stomps away from the fire, from the heat and the warmth that it offers. He sheds the rest of his clothing quickly, abandoning it on the floor as he climbs into his bed.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep and when he does, he is tired, and angry, and frustrated. When he opens his eyes the next morning, it feels as though he hasn’t slept a wink.

.

“I know what you’re doing, you know,” Louis says not two days later.

They’re sitting at the table in the Rosewood dining room, simple inches between them. With them, sits their respective families.

Louis is not panicking.

Only, Harry is wearing his hair is loose today, and on his face sits a prim, almost imperious little smile. It’s slightly distracting.

“I should certainly hope so,” he says to Louis, looking entirely unconcerned. “I’ve made absolutely no effort to keep my intentions hidden from you.”

Louis glowers at him.

As if to prove his own point, Harry’s foot immediately knocks gently into Louis’. It’s a subtle little movement; one that doesn’t even flutter the drape of the tablecloth — but Louis still jerks his own foot away with far more enthusiasm than necessary. The footman is standing barely three feet from them _,_ for God’s sake.

He goes to hiss this very thought in Harry’s ear, when his attention is hastily redirected.

“Louis,” Lady Anne says from a little way down the table, “I haven’t yet had the chance to thank you for going over everything with Harry. It was incredibly kind of you.”

Flustered, and caught a little off guard, Louis nods his head. “Of course, your Ladyship,” he says hurriedly, “It was what anyone would have done.”

He glances at Harry nervously, and then catches himself a second later. Now what in the hell had he done that for?

Harry, the damned man, simply smiles back at him, a knowing twinkle in his eye. How he manages to read Louis’ mind so clearly, all the while masking his own so effectively, is entirely lost on Louis. _Christ_ , does it make his blood boil.

“On the contrary,” Anne replies. “I believe that it is only a very specific type of person that offers help to those who need it, without desire for something in return.”

Louis flushes at that. There is something entirely genuine lingering in her eye that reminds him uncannily of her son. The sight of it stirs something low in his belly. How can he accept such earnest praise, all the while knowing that had the decision been left to him, he never would have gone through with it at all?

So he clears his throat. “Then your thanks should go to my father,” he says, glancing down the table to where Mark and Johannah are sitting. He nods his head in deference and continues, “After all, he is the one responsible for the idea.”

“Why Félicité,” Gemma says from Harry’s other side. “You never told me that your brother was so humble.”

Félicité was gazing at him curiously, the beginning of a frown wavering on her brow. Her eyes are slightly narrow, like his face has become some kind of puzzle she has yet to figure out.

“He isn’t,” she says slowly, “At least not normally.”

Louis puffs his chest up, feeling indignant. “Excuse me—” he begins.

“He is _certainly_ being humble,” Harry interrupts him.

Louis gapes, needing a moment to take stock of this unacceptable turn of events, and by the time he has finished, Harry has continued speaking. “He was incredibly patient with me and made sure that I left knowing absolutely everything that I needed. I am incredibly grateful for his time and his persistence. There were several things that we had to go over again and again and again until they stuck.”

Louis feels his cheeks heat up. It’s probably noticeable, he thinks.

Opposite him, Félicité begins to smirk.

Definitely noticeable, then.

Even Lady Anne has a smug little smile on her face when Louis looks at her.

“There you have it,” she tells him. “The facts have been laid bare for us. I feel entirely reassured in thanking you once again, for the time you spent with my son.”

She wouldn’t be so reassured, Louis thinks, if she knew the real reason for their time spent together; if she knew about the twin marks that marred their skin, but that is hardly luncheon conversation.

“You’d best accept it,” Gemma tells him. “You’ll find our mother entirely relentless once her mind is set to something.”

Once again, Harry nudges Louis’ foot with his boot. It is apparently important for Louis to know that this is a trait Harry shares with his mother.

The tightly wound feeling of apprehension that is laced through Louis’ insides twists a little more. Louis takes a deep breath.

“Very well,” he says to Lady Anne. “I am glad to be of help, where I can be, and I hope that I can continue to do so.”

She seems pleased with that. Louis redirects the conversation before she can say anything further, simply thinking of his own frazzled nerves.

“Lord Marcus,” he addresses Gemma’s husband, “You must tell me more about this business of yours in Surrey. My father mentioned it and I was immediately intrigued.”

As Marcus begins to explain his business in simplified terms — a perhaps slightly condescending, but wholly-well intentioned move that Louis does not begrudge — the entire table blessedly shifts their attention to him. Louis lets out a little sigh of relief.

Sitting beside Harry, he has come to realise, was not a very wise tactic. He’d hoped, initially, to scare Harry off with an aggressive defence. I am entirely unconcerned by you, his demeanour was _supposed_ to have read. Your actions will have absolutely no affect on my own.

Either Louis is a particularly bad actor, or simply a bad liar. It could be either or at this point.

The facts that remain are these: Harry is steadfast in his intentions. Louis, on the other hand, is doing an absolutely piss-poor job of concealing his reaction to said intentions.

This is decidedly not good for Louis.

Part of it, he thinks, can be attributed to the simple heat that Harry’s body gives off at such proximity. Ever since they’d been seated to dine, at least a portion of Louis’ brain has been devoted to cataloguing Harry’s movements. Not grand movements, either. No, Louis has been taking stock of the little movements; of the way his eyes wrinkle when he scratches his nose and the fluid stretch of his shoulders when he reaches for his wine glass.

It is simply impossible not to notice, Louis had learnt very quickly; no matter who was speaking to whom, no matter the conversation or its subject matter, Louis’ attention remained divided.

And that is only just the beginning.

Outside of simply noticing it, Louis’ body reacts to every movement Harry makes. Where Harry leans forward to hear someone more clearly, Louis leans back without thought, simply to make the space for him. Where Harry moves aside to allow the footman to top up his glass, Louis moves with him, something akin to gravity guiding his path.

It’s ridiculous. Louis knows it, but he just can’t help himself.

He can’t assume all of the blame though, that much is sure. Harry is doing him no favours, and it is abundantly clear that he does not intend on beginning to do so any time soon.

There is his blasted foot to consider, for one thing.

Louis had thought it an accident the first and second times. Harry was a tall man, one who took up quite a lot of space, and while Louis had no experience in that regard, he assumes that perhaps for men of Harry’s stature it was difficult to sit still in such confined little chairs. So he’d remained polite and ignored the light nudges, not wanting to embarrass the boy.

By the third and fourth encounters, however, Louis had clued in to Harry’s little game.

(He has also realised, errantly, that there is a startling size disparity between Harry’s foot and Louis’ own — but that, and any connotations that realisation might carry, was neither here nor there.)

Now, Louis was simply doing his best to appear unconcerned. He was a calm and collected young gentleman, uninterested in Harry’s advances.

Remembering this, Louis chooses to rejoin the conversation.

“—That’s why we couldn’t attend Charlotte’s wedding, you see,” Gemma is saying.

“Well,” Johannah replies. “At least that is a good reason. Charlotte told us that you’d written with a good reason.”

Louis frowns. Damn, he thinks, there’s another reason to keep his head out of the clouds. Now he wishes he actually _were_ an unconcerned and aloof young gentleman. Charlotte had been incredibly upset when Gemma had told her she was unable to attend the wedding, and Louis had been waiting to find out her reasoning. It must have been something devilishly important, Louis thinks.

Gemma does look sad now, though, which is something at least. “I wanted to be there so desperately,” she says. “But we simply couldn’t get away.”

Johannah nods her head sagely. “Charlotte understood that, don’t you worry. These things happen, every now and again.”

“It went well, though,” Félicité says then. “The wedding, I mean. Not a single thing went wrong.” She glances around the table, seeking Louis’ gaze and then her mother’s as though she expects them to verify her statement.

Louis nods his head hurriedly. “Yes, quite,” he says hastily, for no real reason at all.

“Well,” Anne exclaims, looking impressed. “That is a good thing to hear. Weddings are so terribly hard to organise. It’s a wonder any of them ever go according to plan.”

There’s a story to that, Louis thinks, but now probably isn’t the best time to ask about it. He files it away, though. Maybe one day, when she’s had a little while longer to mourn, she’ll be able to tell all the hilarious stories from her own wedding that she can only hint at now.

“Indeed,” Johannah says. There’s a wide and wary set to her eyes that suggests she’s got significant experience with the matter. “The fact that it went so smoothly, with so little time left to plan, was perhaps the most surprising part of it all.”

There is a pause there.

They have — born of a unique and comfortable closeness between the two families — unwittingly strayed a little too close to the reason for Charlotte’s hasty wedding. That Charlotte had found her soulmate and married him was fairly common knowledge amongst the town, Louis knew, but no one ever dared speak of it out loud.

Louis stares down at the plate of food in front of him.

Harry’s foot touches his.

“And her husband?” Marcus breaks the silence with a slightly strained smile. “Is he a good sort?”

Mark nods his head hurriedly. “He is, he is,” he says. “He’s the younger son of the Baron of Page, up north. From what I know of him, he seems to have a good head for business. He certainly runs his acreage well enough.”

That, it seems, is enough to allow the table to relax.

Marcus hums, interested. “Wonderful,” he says. “I must meet him, if they are ever in town. I find business in the north is worlds away from the way things are done in the south.”

Even Harry nods at that, which makes Louis smile. He wonders how much business Harry has had with the brutes from the north, or if he’s simply heard all the horror stories of dry coal mines and frigid weather.

“Do they have any plans to visit soon?” Gemma enquires, excitedly.

“Not as of yet,” Johannah replies. “They’re still settling in, I think.”

“It must take a while to adapt,” Harry interjects then. His foot, which has remained a steadfast weight against Louis’, shifts a little. “Swapping one life for another, all for one person. I’m sure it’s quite the change.”

Johannah’s face softens. Louis knows that look far too well. “It is,” she says, touched.

Harry smiles at her. “Worth it, though,” he amends. “I mean, I would imagine.”

Then, with the same nonchalance that Louis has already watched him scratch his chin and eat his food, Louis now watches Harry drop his hand to his hip and swipe his nails across the fabric there.

Louis’ blood runs hot.

His mark fucking sings.

Maybe Harry’s does, as well.

Félicité pipes up then, entirely oblivious to the way that her brother has practically stopped breathing; “I did mention the dance to Charlotte, when I wrote her last. Perhaps she will come back for that?”

“Dance?” Lady Anne echoes.

Harry’s hand is still lingering over his goddamn mark.

Félicité nods. “Yes,” she confirms. “It’s to be held at the town hall in a fortnight. Just a little thing, I think, but I thought it could be enjoyable.” She directs her attention to her parents now, who both look as mystified as Anne. “Phoebe and Daisy would like it as well?”

She’s going to be in a lot of trouble later, Louis knows, for asking them in front of company rather than in the privacy of their own home. But here and now, Mark and Johannah effectively have their hands tied. They can’t shoot it down without thought now, not in front of the Styles family.

Under different circumstances, Louis would have felt proud of her. He might have sent her a smirk, or some other sneaky sign of encouragement.

Now, though, he’s still a little preoccupied.

“Actually,” Gemma says, “This could be a wonderful idea.” Then, meeting her mother’s bewildered stare, she explains. “Most of the town will be there, it’s a fantastic chance for Harry to begin to meet people.”

Anne’s face lights up.

Harry, by contrast, looks more startled than anything else. 

“What a marvellous idea,” Mark observes. “I’m absolutely certain that everyone important will at least make an appearance. Good for morale, you know. With the townspeople.”

“Oh, Harry,” Anne says. “You simply must go. What a good opportunity this will be for you.”

Harry nods. It appears he’s far better at acting under pressure than Louis is. “Certainly,” he says, sounding entirely too sure of himself.

Louis should have known better than to trust it.

“And Louis!” Harry says in the next second. “You can introduce me to everyone. You did such a good job last time!”

He doesn’t mention that ‘last time’ had been at a funeral, or that Harry had cried so much that his skin had turned red and his eyes had gone puffy. They don’t need to.

With every hopeful eye suddenly on him, Louis realises that this too is something he cannot fight. He will attend the dance, it seems, and he will do so at Harry’s side.

“Of course,” he says, not quite managing to sound as excited as everyone else. “Certainly. I shall be there.”

“Good,” Harry says, looking satisfied. He turns his wide grin back to the table, to Félicité. “Thank you for suggesting it,” he says to her. “Where on earth would I be without the help of the Tomlinsons?”

His foot still rests next to Louis’.

Once again, Louis is stuck.

.

Times like these call for tactical revisions, as Louis likes to call them. Today, his tactical revision is to turn his aggressive defence into aggressive aggression.

He corners Harry right after they all depart from the dining room. The ladies gather themselves and head towards the sitting room, while Marcus volunteers to find a new pack of cards from his things.

(Harry’s stuttered offer to find some cards of his own — “ _Oh, I’m sure my father had some somewhere...?”_ — had been hastily waved away within seconds of him making it.)

Mark had paused to speak with Johannah before the ladies had departed, leaving Louis with his golden window of opportunity.

Sternly, he marches Harry away from their friends and family and towards an empty room he’s never seen before.

Harry, the bastard, has an amused grin plastered all over his face. He is almost a full head taller than Louis, standing like they are. His collar-point’s are level with Louis’ nose.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Louis orders, once they’re both safely hidden away from prying eyes.

“Like what?” Harry asks.

Louis shoots him a withering glare. “I know what you’re doing.”

“I know,” Harry says. “You said earlier.”

Louis huffs. “I _know_ I said it earlier. I just want to make sure that you understand what I mean.”

Harry frowns. Louis’ gaze is absolutely, definitely not caught for a moment on the sweet downward turn of his brow. “What’s to understand?” Harry asks. “You said you know what I’m doing.”

“Yes,” Louis says. “I _know what you’re doing._ ”

Harry blinks at him.

Louis clenches his fists and lets out a deep, slow breath. “I mean, I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to get me to change my mind.”

Harry nods.

Louis watches him.

Then Harry shrugs. “This isn’t new information to you, is it?” he asks. “Because I thought I had made myself abundantly clear?”

This whole thing is starting to confuse Louis as well, which certainly doesn’t help matters. “You did. I mean, you have.”

Now Harry is well and truly frowning. “So...?” he says. “What exactly are we discussing, then?”

Louis lifts his hands in one large, wild move, gesturing to the whole house. “You,” he says. “This. All of this.”

Harry stares at him. “I’m still not completely following you,” he says.

“Inviting me here,” Louis explains, his skin feeling hot and stifling. “How in the world is having my family to lunch going to help you change my mind?”

It’s an odd way to frame the question, Louis realises. It almost suggests that Louis’ mind can be changed; that Harry has a chance in this. But it can’t, Louis reminds himself, and he doesn’t.

Harry looks unconcerned by Louis’ question.

“Well,” he says. “I’d certainly left you alone with your thoughts long enough. Why not invite you over and brighten up my day a little?”

This time the heat that rises in Louis’ cheeks feels far less like frustration and far more like something else. Honestly, the things this boy _says_.

“You can’t invite my entire family to your home just because you want to see me!”

“Hang on,” Harry says. “That wasn’t _only_ to see you. Our mothers are actually quite good friends, just in case it escaped your notice.”

And now it’s frustration again.

“It hasn’t escaped my notice, thank you very much,” Louis hisses indignantly. “But it is an awfully convenient excuse!”

“It is!” Harry says.

Louis pauses. “What?”

Harry shrugs again. “It is,” he repeats. “It’s a fantastic excuse, as a matter of fact. And one that I intend to make incredibly good use of.”

Louis gapes at him. Then he says, “What?” again.

Harry takes a small step closer. He’s still worlds away from Louis, half the room left between them, but he still feels too close for comfort. Louis shifts with him, that damn awareness sinking into his bones like it belongs there. Like he and Harry are just two partners, caught in a long and confusing dance.

“I will not deny to your face something that we both know is true,” Harry says. “What possible reason do I have to lie?”

Now Louis is the one that doesn’t understand. At what point, he wonders, did the conversation turn from his favour to Harry’s. When did Harry take the lead?

“You know what I am doing,” Harry continues. “You said it so yourself. And, as I told you earlier, I have no intention of remaining vague. To claim that this is some sort of game would be an insult to our shared intelligence, don’t you think?”

Louis can’t fault the logic in that. Harry has not, for a single moment in the entire time that Louis has known him, attempted to conceal his wants and desires from Louis. Instead, he has made himself abundantly clear.

He wants this as much as Louis doesn’t.

Although, perhaps that isn’t a fair comparison to make. Not considering the thousand and one directions in which Louis is currently being torn.

“It would also be an insult,” Louis says carefully, “to suggest that this is simple.”

Harry nods. “That is not what I am doing. At least not on your part. I do not underestimate the weight or significance of the decision that you have to make in the same way that I wish you wouldn’t underestimate this _gift_ that has been offered to us.”

This is not the boy who had cried behind a church on their first meeting, Louis thinks. Or, at least, it is not the boy that Louis assumed he was. Trying to stem the flow of Harry’s tears, or go over his family’s books with him, has left Louis entirely unprepared to deal with this intelligent and fiery young man.

“The past few weeks have been some of the most difficult of my life,” Harry says, his voice low, serious and sombre. “If one good thing is to come of all of this, then I would have it be you and I. And if you cannot see that yet, then believe me, I will use every single excuse that I have in my arsenal to make sure that one day you do.”

He leaves Louis feeling vaguely winded, standing alone in a dark room.

This is becoming something of a habit for the two of them, Louis thinks first. Then, he thinks perhaps some more tactical revision is in order.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm desperate, desperate, desperate to hear what you thought!!! (lol as always!) Can't wait to hear from you guys, and remember you're the reason I keep updating! x
> 
> [fic post](http://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/post/139572796927) | [tumblr](http://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

♣

Louis and his family meet with the Styles’ three more times before the dance. Each and every encounter is casual enough — a picnic in the Rosewood gardens, an afternoon game of bowls and another luncheon, this time hosted at Mayfield — but they are also filled with loaded looks and calculated touches.

The entirety of Harry’s plan, it seems, is to never let Louis forget him. And he is more successful than even he knows.

The touches are one thing, of course, but he lingers in Louis’ mind long after their families part ways. He is present when Louis undresses for bed and when he wakes in the morning. Thoughts of him hover in the air with an unrelenting surety, refusing to give Louis a moment’s peace.

As such, the time leading up to the dance feels like a lifetime. And then, when the day of the dance finally arrives, it feels like it has gone in the blink of an eye.

“Wait,” Louis says, following his sister as she rushed from the dining room towards the staircase, “You’re telling me that it’s tonight?”

Félicité looks at him like he’s mad. He doesn’t really blame her, either.

“Of course,” she huffs. “Where have you been all week?”

It is frankly ridiculous that he’s been so caught off guard, Louis knows. He’s seen his mother and the girls head off to town to buy their new dresses, and he’s been in the town enough times to see it alight with excitement, it’s just —

He thought that he had more time.

“Are you honestly telling me that you forgot?” Felicity looks unimpressed. “I would have thought it would be at the very forefront of your mind, what with all the ladies coming.”

His stomach turns unpleasantly. He does his very best not to let it show on his face.

“Ah,” he says. “Yes, right. Of course.”

Félicité considers him with narrowed eyes for a long, final second, before ultimately deeming their conversation finished. “Is that all, Lou?” she asks. “Because I’ve still got to get an inch taken up on my hem and the seamstress is only going to be here for another half an hour.”

The poor seamstress, Louis thinks. She would be run off her feet this afternoon. Especially with all the new _ladies_ in town.

He nods his head, allowing Félicité to part with a flounce of her skirt. He will have to do away with all those sorts of thoughts before the dance began, he realises. He can’t be thinking such things at the dance itself — his temper and his poker face have never been quite that well-behaved.

Harry will notice anyway, a voice from somewhere in the back of his head reminds him. He always does, after all.

It’s just frustrating, is the thing. Harry’s presence is one thing — ever constant, always there — but the addition of all the ladies that have been invited on Harry’s behalf — God. It’s stifling. It makes Louis feel like he’s suffocating.

A foolish thing, considering that these women are the answer to all of Louis’ dreams. All of their problems would be solved if Harry found the right woman and whisked her off to the sunset, leaning Louis happily behind.

Just the thought twists at something ugly in his gut.

This only frustrates him further. That is what he should want, after all. It’s what he should be _encouraging_.

Despite his best efforts, Louis’ foul mood does not magically vanish by the time they are to depart. He shares a carriage with Phoebe and Daisy; Mark and Jay are travelling separately with Félicité, and he is grateful for it. The younger girls are too excited by the dance to give any thought to their brother’s odd behaviour and their happy chatter provides him with at least something to distract him.

Their blissful ignorance is enviable.

All they are looking forward to is the opportunity to dance. They have their errant fantasies that a noble Prince will arrive and sweep them off their feet, but they’re far too young to consider any of that nonsense seriously. That’s what his problem is, after all. Nonsense; the kind that he should be able to rid himself of without a second thought.

“Is Harry going to be there when we arrive, Louis?” Daisy breaks into his reverie.

Of course.

They’d finally been given the chance to meet Harry at the picnic a week and a half earlier. While they were still a little young to be attending formal lunches, Johannah had relented when the picnic had been suggested. They’d spent half the day running around in the sun — cackling far louder than polite society deemed they should — and the other half doting on Harry, hand and foot.

 “Ooh, is he?” Phoebe pipes up. “He promised me a dance!”

“He promised me a dance, too!” Daisy says.

It seems that Harry has the same influence over all members of the Tomlinson family.

“I love his hair more than anything,” Phoebe muses now. “Louis, do you think my hair will ever curl like that?”

Louis doesn’t quite have the heart to tell her that no, no it will not. Charlotte and Felicity had been plagued by the same disappointment for years. It doesn’t really matter though, his lack of reply. For the moment, the girls seem happy to simply chatter on — bursting with questions, but never waiting for actual answers.

They continue for the rest of the ride, as a matter of fact. It’s only as the wheels begin to slow that they fall silent and look at Louis with their big, round eyes.

“Are you excited, Louis?” Phoebe asks. “Don’t you think we’ll have just the most wonderful time?”

They are such sweet girls, Louis thinks. They’re caring and intelligent and they deserve the entire world.

So Louis sucks in a deep breath and shoots them his most sincere smile. “Absolutely,” he says. “I’m sure it will be a night that we’ll never forget.”

.

The old town hall, despite now being clean and filled to the brim with people, still looks like the old town hall. The wooden slats of the entrance staircase creak underfoot, looking all the more stressed by the sheer volume of people they are now expected to hold.

Theirs is not a big town, Louis knows, but it is still a town. And fitting every member of said town into one small little hall was always going to be something of a herculean task.

The ladies that he doesn’t recognise become all the more obvious once they step inside. They are littered around the room, standing out in dresses that are slightly too grand for the occasion. They’ve brought entourages with them, of course. Hawk-eyed mothers swivel to take Louis in as he steps inside, eyeing him with interest.

He is not the new Earl, that much they know, but Mayfield is no small estate. It is not only Harry that will have to fend off interest all night.

If he does fend it off, Louis thinks. He shakes off the bitter tinge to his thoughts and reaffirms with himself. He wants Harry to meet the perfect lady tonight, he does.

He keeps a keen eye on Phoebe and Daisy as they greet several of the other younger girls from around the town. Their friends don’t share the same social circles, having met after church, rather than by any familial connection, but Johannah and Mark have never minded. They are too young to worry about things like that, either.

He sternly does not look at the door. Mark, Johannah and Félicité cause a little bit of a stir when they enter — Félicité, dressed to the nines, outshines any of the other young ladies present by _miles_ — but it is nothing compared to the way the room reacts when Harry finally does arrive.

It is almost as if everyone in the hall takes a unified breath, all shifting together to face him. Even those on the dance floor seem to hesitate when they catch sight of him.

One beat behind them, Louis follows suit.

There is no use being surprised by how well Harry appears. Louis has yet to find clothing that doesn’t agree with Harry’s fine form, and his dress tails are no exception. He is all hard lines and sharp angles, his hair only partially tied out of his face.

He doesn’t look aloof though, like any other man might. He is smiling, a wide and welcoming grin plastered across his features. The only hint of his nervousness is an unsettled flash in his eye, one that Louis can recognise even at a distance only because he has catalogued it from their more private encounters.

“Oh my,” Louis hears one of the unfamiliar women say, not too far away from him. “Well, he will certainly do.”

Louis’ hands clench instinctively. He takes a deep breath and stretches his fingers out again, fighting to look unconcerned. Just nerves, he tells himself.

It isn’t only the ladies who devote Harry their attention. Almost all of the men survey him as well, their gaze just an analytical. The only difference is that where the women are calculating his net worth and searching for his weak points, the men are waiting to see if Harry meets their standards.

It makes Louis think of the young boy he found sat on the steps behind the church, all those weeks ago, and his skin crawls. What might these men have done then, if they’d been the ones to find him?

The urge to sweep Harry out of the room and to hide him is as overwhelming as it is ridiculous. _Christ Almighty_ , he scolds himself. _Get a hold of yourself, man!_

The awkwardness doesn’t only get to him, it seems. Only, unlike Louis, his little sister is brave enough to do something about it.

Brazenly, Felicite approaches Harry — and Gemma, Marcus and Anne, who now all stand beside him. She tilts her head to Harry, then to Anne, and smiles.

“I am glad to see you here,” she says, more for the benefit of the crowd than anything else. They, unlike the rest of the town, always knew that Harry would be attending. “Come. I will show you around.”

Just like that, the people seem to remember themselves. The dancing begins anew and Louis feels a bit of the weight lift from his shoulder.

Daisy and Phoebe return to his side within seconds, eyes bright. “Can we go say hello to Harry please?” Daisy begs. “Please, please?”

Louis sighs. “I suppose I can’t say no, can I?”

Daisy shakes her head resolutely, Phoebe copying her in the following second. “No,” Daisy says. “You can’t.”

He directs them through the crowd and in the direction of their now combined families. He sees, with astounding clarity, the moment that Harry sets eyes on him.

“Louis!” Harry greets him, when they arrive. “You’ve changed your hair.”

Louis flushes a little, recalling his waxed fringe and realising that Harry hasn’t seen him wear it like this before. “I have,” he says.

“It suits you,” Gemma says.

Louis bows his head in thanks, rather than say anything, feeling incredibly wrong footed.

“Lord Harry!” Phoebe says, before anyone can call him out for it. “Look, I’ve got a new dress!”

“Me too!” Daisy says. “I’ve got a new dress, too!”

Johannah flushes pink. “Girls!” she says. “Leave Harry alone!”

Harry doesn’t appear to mind, though. Instead, he looks hopelessly endeared by them. It’s a feeling Louis is entirely familiar with, and the same way that Harry had looked when he’d met them for the first time.

“They are very beautiful dresses,” he says, smiling down at them. Then, in a slightly lower voice, “As a matter of fact, I suspect you are the most beautiful ladies here.”

As kind as it is, it is an unwise move. Talk like that is certainly not going to help in dissuading them from their obsession, Louis thinks. Still, the girls look as though Christmas has come earlier and Louis cannot resent that in the slightest.

“Félicité got a new dress as well,” Daisy says matter of factly.

This time it’s Félicité who looks scandalised. With wide, embarrassed eyes she hisses, “Daisy!”

A round of laughter stirs from everyone. This is why the girls usually stay home, Louis thinks, but he can’t help but grin along.

Once again, Harry is unconcerned. “And she looks beautiful, too,” he says. Félicité colours a few shades darker. “Which is why I thought I’d ask if she’d like to dance?”

Louis looks quickly to the floor, then immediately curses himself for being so obvious. He hadn’t expected that.

“I’d be honoured,” Félicité says.

Louis should probably walk away. It would be good if Louis walked away.  Space, yes. Some space would be nice.

Instead, he lifts his head just in time to see Félicité take Harry’s gloved hand, as he leads her to the dance floor.

Louis tries not to pay too much attention, as they dance, but can’t quite stop his gaze from drifting every now and again. He entertains himself by engaging Marcus in conversation, asking about trivial things like how he’s spent the time since their last combined outing, and doesn’t listen to a word.

Harry is a graceful dancer. He and Félicité barely touch, only grazing gloved hands when the dance absolutely requires it. They seem to be speaking to each other whilst they dance, and enjoying it more to the point.

This is the way it should have been, Louis thinks. Harry and his sister look lovely together, matching dark hair and kind smiles. Their marks should match the same way, shouldn’t they? Couldn’t the universe see that they are an infinitely better choice?

He forces himself to focus on Marcus again, trying not to linger on the thought.

Harry stays on the dance floor for what feels like a lifetime. He and Félicité dance to two songs, and then — by the time Louis finally allows himself to glance back in their direction — Harry has found a new partner.

Apparently, his reaction is not subtle.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Marcus says, catching Louis looking. “Anne says her family lives close to the city. Lady Catherine Kingsley, I believe she’s called.”

Louis hums along, neither an agreement nor disagreement, and lets Marcus interpret that as he may.

“Gemma says that she is a good option for him. They knew each other when they were younger, apparently. Gemma says she has a very good head for numbers.”

He wonders what else Gemma might have said. ‘ _Keep an eye out for this one_ ,’ she could have said to Harry, before they’d arrived. ‘ _She’d be perfect for you_. _Exactly the kind of woman we’ve always seen for you._ ’

“Excuse me,” Louis says. Astoundingly, his hands are shaking. 

Retreat, then, is his best option.

.

Louis avoids Harry for most of the night after that. He is latently aware that he is supposed to be introducing Harry to everyone from town, but he doesn’t have it in him. Lady Catherine has steadfastly refused to leave his side since they’d left the dance floor, and Louis certainly doesn’t have the patience to insert himself in the middle of all that.

He is already in the middle, he remembers. There is no escaping that.

He busies himself with his sisters, helping Johannah keep an eye on the younger ones while Félicité fends off request after request to dance. Louis had intended on asking her himself, at one point, but she seems so exhilarated and happy with the attention that he daren’t get in the way.

Harry does not leave his head, though. He lingers, as always, in the back of Louis’ mind, out of the corner of Louis’ eye.

There is only so much a man can take. It is around nine o’clock, when Louis’ wits finally snap. At the sound of Lady Catherine’s trilling laugh, echoing around the room, he decides that enough is _enough._

He steps forward, navigating the crowd with a sense of resolute surety.  Both Harry and the woman turn to look at him as soon as he approached, but he clears his throat anyway.

“If I may interrupt,” he says, shooting the woman a quick, kind smile, “I’m afraid I have to steal Lord Styles away from you for a moment. Would you mind terribly?”

Catherine, for all the time that Louis has spent resenting her, simply nods graciously. Louis feels himself relax for an instant.

Then she shoots a small, almost private smile, and says, “Well, as long as it is only for a moment,” and Louis hates her all over again.

His smile, this time, is a little less sincere. “Of course,” he says.

He doesn’t reach for Harry’s hand as they turn to go, but by God does he want to. His fingers actually itch for the chance, for the opportunity to reassure himself with the feeling of Harry’s warm touch. Louis knows better than to follow through with the impulse, though.

It proves ultimately unnecessary. Harry follows him without instruction, a bemused smile playing at his lips as Louis leads him on a winding path amongst the crowd. Louis knows the old hall well enough to know where they’re heading, eventually escaping the dance floor and disappearing into one of the darker corridors.

He has spent a lot of time ducking out of sight, lately, Louis realises as he navigates the shadowy walkway. And he will do far more, should he continue to keep in Harry’s company. This is what they will consist of, he realises; furtive glances and rushed voices.

He forces the thought from his head as Harry speaks up, “How far do you plan on taking me?” He sounds entertained, and happy.

It’s distracting. Louis shakes his head, refusing to answer even as he locates the room he’s been searching for and pushes open the door. It’s blessedly empty, just as he had hoped.

This, it seems, throws Harry off a little. “Louis?” he says.

This time, when the impulse to take Harry’s hand hits him, Louis doesn’t stop himself. He reaches out and takes a firm grip of Harry’s wrist, pulling him inside.

This is where they used to keep the robes and stoles that Louis had used the few times his mother insisted he sing with the boys’ choir. He’d only done it once or twice, back when he was far younger and only for special occasions like Easter and Christmas, but he’d done it enough to know his way around.

Sure enough, the clothes cupboard sits where it always has, just like Louis remembers.

He is a little too distracted, however, to pay it any mind.

The door swings shut just as Louis pushes Harry against the wall, his back colliding with the wooden panel with a heavy and solid ‘ _thump!’_

Harry’s eyes have gone round, wide. His bewildered little smile has vanished now, replaced with outright surprise and perhaps a little wariness. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes search Louis’ face almost desperately.

Louis shakes his head the second Harry starts to speak. “Don’t,” he says again, before he can even hear what Harry has to say. “Just don’t.”

Even now, breathless and silent, there is a magnetic pull to him that Louis just can’t fight. And, plagued with thoughts of all the eligible young ladies waiting just outside, Louis doesn’t try. Instead he leans forward with his whole body, crowding Harry up against the wall and pressing as close as he dares.

Louis settles his hands on the wall on either side of Harry’s body, his palms flat and stretched out as he tries to ground himself. They don’t touch, but they share the same air.

The heat from Harry’s body exudes a comforting warmth, threaded with the familiarity that an old family blanket might provide. Louis wants to wrap himself in it, wants to curl himself up and hide himself away until his frantic brain can finally start to think straight again.

He can’t, though. He _can’t._

“Louis...” Harry says on an exhale.

His breath spills out over Louis’ neck, goosebumps erupting in its wake. Louis feels a shiver run up his spine and fights the urge to close his eyes.

“How do you stand it?” Louis asks. His voice is whisper soft. He scrapes his nails across the uneven wooden wall behind Harry, searching for something to ground himself. “How do you do it, every day? You’re always so calm. It’s like nothing can shake you.”

He watches the sharp line of Harry’s jaw and the movement of his throat when he swallows. One of Harry’s curls sits mere inches away, lingering over Harry’s collarbone. 

“It does,” Harry murmurs back. “It does shake me.”

Louis lets out a wet, little laugh. “You hide it, then,” he says. “I don’t know how. I feel like I’m being torn apart.”

Harry shifts a little, seemingly struck by the impulse to move, then caught himself in the last second. Perhaps he meant to take Louis in his arms, Louis thinks wildly. _God, what if he had?_

“I don’t want you to feel that way,” Harry says, still quiet, still soft.

Louis lets out another hoarse little chuckle. He shakes his head, still gazing at the hard line of Harry’s shoulder. “No one really thought to ask what we want, did they?” He pauses, thinks on his words for a moment as his brain recalls the picture of Harry and Félicité dancing together. “Don’t — don’t you think it would have been easier?”  

“What?” Harry asks.

Louis shrugs helplessly. It’s a tiny little move, but every twitch and shift feels electrified, pressed this close to Harry. “If we hadn’t — if it hadn’t been us,” he clarifies. “Don’t you wish it hadn’t been us?”

They would be fools not to wish that, Louis thinks.

Harry replies without hesitation. “No,” he says. “ _God_ , no.” His voice gets a little louder, the word spilling urgently from his lips. He leans back, craning his neck as best he can, physically demanding Louis look at him. His eyes, from this proximity, accept no quarter. “Do you?”

Louis gazes at him for a long while. Swallowing, he wets his lips before he speaks. “No,” he says quietly, a wave of shame rushing through him. Despite all his better judgement, he cannot lie about this. “God help me, I don’t know.”

Harry stares at him. There is something in his gaze that is so, so sad, that Louis can’t stand to look at.

He looks abruptly back at the wall over Harry’s shoulder, taking a deep breath and freeing it with a loud exhale. “But how can that be?” he demands, of both Harry and himself. “In what world is this a good thing for anyone?”  

Harry is quiet for a moment before he sighs. “Well,” he says, “It’s a good thing to me, Louis. I want you to know that.”

Hearing that has a warmth erupting in Louis’ chest that he hadn’t realised was absent, and suddenly he feels so, so selfish. He heaves an incredulous laugh. “So you don’t care, then,” he surmises, “About what this will do to us. To our families.”

For the first time since entering the room, Harry bristles.

Louis doesn’t blame him.

“Of course I care,” Harry says, a hard edge now lingering in his voice.

Louis feels a little hysterical. “Then how can you be so sure?” he demands. “How can you care, and still want this?”

He ignores the fact that he has felt the same way himself, since meeting Harry. Torn furiously between his duty and his — God, could it be his heart, already?

The line of Harry’s jaw remains set when he begins to speak again. “Valuing my own happiness does not come at the expense of that of my family,” he says. “Just because I know my own desires does not mean I have no regard for theirs. And theirs will remain unaffected, for the most part. Gemma is settled and happy, and my mother certainly does not need me.”

Louis scoffs. “How can you say that? She has no one else!”

But Harry shakes his head. “She isn’t as alone as you might think,” he says, and continues before Louis can question him, “But that is neither here nor there. I know that our situations differ, but do not turn your hesitations into mine. They are not the same.” 

Louis deflates a little at that. His shoulders drop and he leans impossibly closer to Harry, leaving only the scantest space between them. It is unfair of him, he knows, to assume that Harry has not devoted as much thought and attention to this decision as Louis has. Still, he catches himself dwelling on one particular part of Harry’s speech.

“So you have hesitations, then,” he says, almost hollowly.

Of course he does, a voice yells at Louis from inside his own head. How conceited must Louis be, to assume that he does not?

Harry’s voice turns soft again, though, in the next second. His body goes with him, the harsh line of his jaw yielding to something far calmer.

“I have considerations,” Harry corrects him, “The same as you. The same as any man would, standing in our shoes.”

Louis clenches his hands against the wall. The edges of his knuckles scrape against the harsh wood. “But you do not deem them important enough to stop?” he asks.

Harry shakes his head. Louis watches his curls as they sweep along the line of his clavicle. “No,” Harry says. “I do not.”

And there is his answer, Louis thinks. The same as it has been from the beginning. In the face of overwhelming odds, Harry has chosen to meet their difficult circumstances with a show of outstanding bravery. Louis, for his part, has done nothing more than run away.

“I need help,” Louis says quietly. He watches the push of his own breath as it disturbs Harry’s hair where it lays. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

He startles when Harry lifts his hand and settles it beneath Louis’ chin. Gently, ever so gently, and with the lightest touch imaginable, Harry tilts Louis’ head upwards.

“We can do this together, Lou. It will be alright,” he says, his face impossibly earnest. “I promise, it will.”

Harry’s hand moves carefully with him when Louis starts to shake his head. “It won’t,” he says, as thoughts of his family and his duty begin to consume him. “There are things you don’t know, things you _can’t_ know, and they—”

“—They do not matter,” Harry interrupts him swiftly. “I have faith.”

Louis stares at him. Faith, he thinks. There’s a joke.

“What is there to have faith in?” he asks. It can’t be God. They both know well enough how He would take to their union.

Harry smiles, though. “Us,” he says. “You and I, and whatever deity it is that saw fit to grace us with these marks.”

“You are being blasphemous,” Louis says, even as his mark sears at his hip. His voice breaks on the word.

Harry’s eyes are bright and impossibly, impossibly green. They are also entirely unconcerned.

“Yes,” he says. “And I will be, if I have to be. I know what is deniable and what is undeniable, and the lines that mark my skin are not a lie.”

The mention of Harry’s mark sends a hot burst of arousal thrilling through Louis’ body. He wonders if it affects Harry the same way Louis’ affects him. Is it screaming at Harry, in this very moment, to abandon any thoughts of rhyme and reason and simply give in? Does it sting at Harry’s skin?

Will it feel hot, Louis wonders, under Louis’ hands? Will it burn him the same way Harry’s touch does now, just the lightest point of contact underneath his chin?

For a moment everything is still, time suspended between them as Harry’s breath, wet and warm, spills out and fans across Louis’ lips.

In the next, they are kissing, and the whole world screeches to a halt.

The kiss, itself, is barely a suggestion. It is the lightest passing of lips, blending their breath together and nothing more, but it is enough to finally settle the chaotic churn of thoughts in Louis’ head. Then the first kiss turns into a second, and with every moment Louis has to chase this weightless bliss, it deepens.

Harry’s lips are hot and _demanding_ in a way that Louis absolutely should have expected. His hand, that had rested below Louis’ chin so carefully, now cradles Louis’ neck with a strength that suggests that Louis is something precious — something that can’t be let go.

Suddenly, the space between them feels like miles. As Harry’s other arm comes up to grasp at Louis’ side, Louis closes the gap between them. And the feeling of that, _Christ._ The simple heat of Harry’s body, pressed through their several layers of clothing, is enough to drive him to madness.

There is no helping the small whimpering noise that escapes him as he reaches up to the nape of Harry’s neck, clutching him ever closer. He feels helpless, overwhelmed by Harry’s touch but never, ever, wanting it to stop. As their embrace abandons tentative pretence and assumes the mantle of undeniable desperation, Louis parts his lips, begging for more.

Harry gives it to him. His tongue sears at the seam of Louis’ lips, delivering everything that Louis has asked for and more. He is making noises of his own, small little breaths and moans into the space between them that make Louis’ knees weak.  

When they part, it is only because they absolutely have to.

They gasp for air together, their foreheads pressed against one another, both of them refusing to sacrifice an inch of space between them. Harry’s lips, Louis notes as he stares, are a wrecked and ruined red. They are, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful things Louis has ever seen.

“Louis—” Harry gasps.

Louis doesn’t listen. Not when he could taste the words instead. He shakes his head, interrupting Harry before he even has the words.  “I want—” he says on a desperate exhale, “I, I want—”

Harry brings his hand up from Louis’ waist, a fresh breath of reason as he cradles Louis’ jaw. “What?” he says, as desperately as Louis, “What do you want?”

 _You_ , Louis thinks. But he can’t possibly say that, that would be—

“You,” his body defies him, letting the word out on a breathless exhale. “I want you.” And when that is not enough, the words suddenly spill from him unhindered. “I want to know that this is real, I want something to, to _prove_ it—”

Harry pushes abruptly away from the wall. In less than a second, Louis has taken his place — pressed firmly between the wall and the hot, hard press of Harry’s body.

It’s _exquisite._

For the first time in weeks, Louis feels contained. He feels safe, and secure, and protected. Here is someone, his senses scream at him, a large and perfect someone who would stand by him throughout anything. Someone who would brave each and every storm without pause or hesitation, as long as Louis was by his side.

“This?” Harry breathes, “Do you want this?”

Louis’ head falls back on a moan, thumping against the wall. He barely notices, too caught up in the feeling of Harry’s leg as it presses firmly between his own.

“Yes,” he gasps, surprising himself with his candour. “Oh God, yes.”  

Harry shifts against him again. This time the press of his hips is calculated, deliberate and Louis loses the rest of his words to a whimper. It might embarrass him, if not for the raspy groan that escapes Harry the very same second. Harry keeps a bruising grip on Louis’ waist, not faltering once in the pressure that keeps Louis’ trapped in place.

Louis feels dizzy with it. There is a rush of heat that swells in the deepest parts of his belly and resonates outwards all the way to the tips of his toes. Any sense of coherency that he might have once retained is lost, taking all thoughts of decency and dignity with it.

Harry’s touch carries with it an offer of closeness that is beyond thought. And Louis wants it. There was no use denying it any longer, not so wrapped up as they were. Not now that Louis knows what it is to feel Harry’s hair threaded around his fingers, or the strength hidden in Harry’s slender form.

His desire feels like a furnace, untamed and alive with heat. It does not matter that they are fully clothed, mere steps from almost everyone that Louis has ever met. Here there was only Harry, and Harry’s lips, and Harry’s _hands._

When Harry presses against him for a third time, it is with an unrepentantly slow and sensual roll of his hips. The white hot pleasure that sparks through Louis’ veins is so intense that it takes him off guard, and another instinctive whine of pleasure escapes him.

He tugs at Harry’s hair without even realising, but his blood sings when he hears the grunt it earns him. Moving with the tug of Louis’ hand, Harry pulls away from their kiss and drops his head into the crook of Louis’ shoulder. For a moment, he is simply still.

“You’re so beautiful,” Harry says, pressing the words into the line of Louis’ outstretched neck. He pauses to kiss at his pulse point, before scraping his teeth at the crux of Louis’ jaw. “I have wanted this.”

He pushes his hips forward once again. They are unforgiving in their pursuit and for the first time, Louis feels the distinct line of Harry’s arousal press against his own. Sparks of pleasure stutter through his veins.

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis pants, because there aren’t any other words left in the universe, “ _Harry, Harry—”_

Harry chooses that moment to move his hand. He lifts the one that had been pressed so insistently at the curve of Louis’ waist, and shifts downwards — just a fraction, just an inch — and as he presses his hips forwards once again, he settles it down directly over the top of Louis’ mark.

Louis’ vision whites out. His whole body gives over to the feeling, and he shudders with it, surrendering to the thundering rush of his blood in his ears.

When he comes back to himself, he is trembling. Harry is still pressed against him, although the rhythmic dance of his hips has slowed — numbed now to a light, but constant pressure. Even that is almost too much, Louis’ body feeling over-sensitised and spent. 

Harry’s hand lingers on his mark for perhaps a second longer, his thumb swiping delicately over the wing of Louis’ hip bone, before he pulls away. He reaches, instead, for Louis’ jaw, cradling his head as Harry peers into his eyes.

He looks a mess, Louis notices next. His hair is tangled, his lips are bitten and raw and his pupils are still blown — so much so that the green is almost absent from his eyes. But there is concern there as well, and a kind of urgency that Louis isn’t used to.

And Louis understands. Because as the seconds pass, Louis is given more and more of an opportunity to ruminate on what has just passed between them. Or, if what Louis can still feel pressed against his hip is any indication, what is still passing between them.

They have crossed a line, he realises slowly. And it is not the kind of thing that can be undone. The uncomfortable evidence of his release, probably soaking through the fabric of his trousers, is proof enough of that.

He should walk away. That much, at least, he knows. There is so much more at stake here than the simple tilt of Harry’s smile.

And yet that is the only thing Louis can find it in him to focus on. Reason is lost, Louis realises, pressed here between the wall and Harry’s steadfast presence.

What is one more sin, after all?

Louis’ hands are still resting around Harry’s neck, curled up in Harry’s hair. Slowly, he forces himself to move. He scans Harry’s face, never once looking away, as he drags his hand — his palm flat — down Harry’s neck and slowly across his chest. His breath rattles as his fingers skate ever lower, catching for the barest second on the ties of Harry’s shirt before continuing onwards.

The heat of his body is as impossible as ever, even through the fabric of Harry’s shirt. Could that be how Harry always feels, Louis wonders, or is it simply because Louis is focusing so intently on it?

His hand comes to an abrupt stop when it meets the seam of Harry’s breeches. Harry’s jaw drops a little, his chest heaving with his breaths.

They both have yet to look away.

Louis almost feels as if he can’t.

They gaze at each other for several moments. Then, slowly, Harry nods his head. It’s a sign that Louis hadn’t known he was waiting for, but with it Louis feels free to continue. The fabric of Harry’s breeches is far thicker than Harry’s shirt, but it does not do well to disguise what lies beneath.

Louis is startled by the hardness he finds there, but it isn’t the feeling of Harry that grabs Louis’ attention. Instead, it is the way Harry’s eyelids shutter when Louis curves his palm and presses down.

A soft, quiet little noise escapes the taller boy. It’s a low, weak sound, and is all it takes to spurn Louis to repeat the action. This time he curls his fingers as he rubs, delighting in both the groan Harry gives in response and the weight of Harry in his hand.

When he does it a third time, Harry’s hand latches on to Louis’ wrist like a vice.

Louis startles a little bit at the movement, but Harry, it appears, is too caught up in the pleasure of it. With the same feeling still sinking into his bones, Louis finds he can’t quite disagree, so he keeps himself still, and lets Harry direct his hand as he would like.

It isn’t too long before Harry is thrusting his hips into Louis’ open hand — uncontrollable little whimpers escaping him every couple of seconds.

Not for one second do either of them break eye contact.

Watching Harry reach his crest is something unlike anything Louis has ever experienced before. He catalogues it all, taking in each and every quiet moan and hitched breath. Louis watches it on Harry’s face as his pleasure climbs. When he reaches the peak, Harry’s teeth sink into his lower lip and his eyes finally flutter close — an image that will be seared into Louis’ memory until the day that he dies.

There is a moment, as Harry recovers, that Louis thinks he should quite like to lean in and kiss him again.

As if they haven’t done more than enough already.

As Harry’s breathing slowly returns to normal, his grip around Louis’ wrist begins to soften. He huffs, still towering over Louis’ body as he supports most of his weight on the wall, and considers what Louis _knows_ to be a very uncomfortable situation in his breeches.

“We will have to find something to clean up with,” Harry observes, with a breathless laugh.

There is something light and airy to his tone that reminds Louis’ of the first night that they met. When Harry had expressed such enthusiasm for their marks, the same marks that had terrified Louis to the very centre of his being. Of course Harry would approach this in the same way?

He wonders if Harry has ever done this before, if he’s ever watched a person shake apart and put them back together with his touch, or if Louis is the first.

Faintly, in the background, Louis hears the tone of the music change in the dance hall. There is a pulse of excited chatter that rises to meet it. Louis can imagine his sisters there now, harrying people onto the dance floor.

How is it that he and Harry can stand on metres from them but feel as if they are worlds away?

Harry strokes a shaky hand down the side of Louis’ face, his blunt fingernails scraping at the hollow space behind Louis’ ear. His eyes are filled with a kind of breathless wonder that Louis has never seen before.

The world might never meet such a pair of fools, Louis thinks. _God, what have they done_?

Like a chill down Louis’ spine, the reality of what they have done dawns on him. This is more than a few errant touches, or the nudge of a foot beneath the table. Harry now possesses a part of Louis that no one else can touch.

And there is no one in the world better suited to the task, a voice snarls at him. After all, if he cannot trust this kind and honest boy with that piece of him, then who else? 

The better question to ask, then, was whether or not Louis could be trusted to keep Harry so safe.

He doesn’t have time to figure out the answer. Whatever happens across Louis’ face, as his thoughts sober, is enough for Harry to notice. A flash of hurt glances across his face, and just like that his smile begins to fade.

Louis doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want that, at all.

He lifts his hand to Harry’s neck in a desperate attempt to provide some kind of comfort. It is pointless — how can Louis comfort Harry, when he has absolutely no idea where they can go from there? — but Louis tries anyway.

His smile, when he forces it back onto his features, is weak.

“Harry,” he says quietly.

He attempts to sound casual, collected and calm, but only succeeds in sounding shaken. To make up for it, he runs the tip of his thumb along the line of Harry’s jaw.

Harry’s shakes his head. He seems torn between pressing closer to Louis’ touch or cringing away from it. His hands, now sat on Louis’ waist, curl into fists.

“—please don’t say it,” he pleads, before Louis can say anything more. “Louis, don’t.”

His voice is cracked and hoarse, and the sound of it stops Louis in his tracks. There are things he has to say, people he has to think about — his mother, the girls and _Mark_ —  but all thought of them vanishes, gazing into Harry’s sad eyes.

Not five minutes ago, Louis had watched those eyes flutter with desperate pleasure.

“I’m sorry,” he says, instead of anything else.

Harry looks so, so disappointed. He is still shaking his head. “Has this really changed nothing for you?”

Louis hesitates.

He knows what he had been going to say; because it’s the same thing he’s said before. They can’t do this, they should not do this and they both know that.

But something has changed between them now.

They have done this. The sting of Harry’s kiss that still chafes at Louis’ bottom lip is evidence enough, to say nothing on the incriminating state of their trousers. There is no taking it back, not after this.

So Louis hesitates.

He stares up at Harry, searching desperately for the words. For more than words, for _answers_ , answers that steadfastly refuse to come. He doesn’t — he just doesn’t _know_ anymore.

“I’m going to go to London,” he says, finally.

There is a beat.

Harry gapes at him. “What?” he says.

Louis takes a shaky breath. Yes, he thinks. This is good. This, at least, he can do.

“I’m going to London,” he repeats. “And then I’m going to go and visit my sister.”

Harry is still staring. “Louis,” he says. “What does that—?”

“I need time,” Louis interrupts. “Okay? I just need time. So I’m going to go away, and give myself some time.”

Harry’s fingers dig into his waist, almost painfully tight for a second, before they stop. Then he lets Louis go with a quiet little nod. His gaze shutters and he glances around the room, taking a moment, before he meets Louis’ eyes.

“How long will you be gone?” he asks.

Louis shakes his head. He feels so much more exposed without Harry’s weight caging him in. Like he could fly away at any moment. “I don’t know,” he says.

Harry nods. He takes a second to digest it, glancing away again. He looks determined though, when he looks back. There is a steely, resolute set to his jaw. “And when you get back?” he asks. “What then?”

Louis sighs, and tries to feel as strong as Harry looks.

“I don’t know that either.”

At least this time it is honest, he thinks. For the moment, that will have to be enough.

♣

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I'm was on time this week!! And that E rating made me work for it because boy, oh boy, was this chapter hard to get right. (Hint: If you don't tell me what you thought of the sexy times, I may possibly curl up into a shame spiral and never write again. Up to you.) 
> 
> (PS. I'm joking, but also please leave feedback, I love you.) 
> 
> [fic post](http://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/post/139572796927) | [tumblr](http://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I know it's been an age since I posted long and really I can't apologise enough. Real life gets in the way sometimes and I'm not going to apologise for that, but I also know how horrible it is to wait for updates so I will say sorry for that. I also want to say a huge, huge thank you to everyone who messaged me with their wonderful feedback, and encouraged me to take my time. You're all amazing and I love you!!!

♣

For perhaps the first time in as long as Louis can recall, London is a breath of fresh air. The hustle and bustle of the narrow streets provide the perfect amount of white noise; just enough to divert him and ensure that he is never once left alone with his own thoughts.

He spends three nights there, each night visiting different friends from his University days. He drinks the evenings away with them, doing his best to keep in merry spirits and laugh along where required. They reminisce and regale themselves with tales of their own foolishness, and that too is a blessed distraction. The wine he drinks is more than enough to rob him of coherent thought, so even when the night is over and he returns home alone, thoughts of Harry are blissfully absent.

It is good, in a way — a welcome change from the whirring thoughts that have plagued him for so many weeks — but it does not come without consequence. A hollow feeling lingers in his gut, a kind of heavy guilt that curses and scolds him for his cowardice.

It is that feeling that follows him into his dreams.

There, Harry is everywhere. The smell of him is impossible to avoid, consuming every moment of Louis’ sleep and lingering impossibly for a scant few moments after Louis wakes in the morning. The memory of his touch is almost like a brand, as persistent and warm as it had been in person.

It stirs at something deep within him and more than once he wakes up with sweat on his brow and a shortness of breath. That is harder to ignore, but Louis does his best, pushing it from his mind and keeping himself as busy as he can.

Ignoring Harry is exhausting, as it happens. 

By the fourth day, he has had enough. He spends the morning meeting with his solicitor, taking the time to go over his accounts, meets his friends for a final time over lunch and then departs.

He is at Charlotte’s home before the sun sets that afternoon.

“Louis!” she says, meeting him at the front door. Louis’ carriage has barely rolled to a stop before she’s at the door, pulling it open and grinning up at him widely. She’s wearing a lovely dress, one that Louis hasn’t seen before, with soft blue and pink tones that compliment the brightness of her smile. “Oh, it’s so good to see you!”  

It’s remarkably improper of her, to greet him like this, but that doesn’t seem to matter a whit to her. And it oughtn’t, he reminds himself. She is the Lady of the house. The only person that can tell her off is her husband — and the man in question, standing a few metres back from the carriage, looks far too endeared for the thought to have even crossed his mind.

He might have known, Louis thinks idly. It is Charlotte, after all. Of all his sisters, she’d always been the first to show contempt for the rules that constrained them.

He pushes himself up and out of the carriage, waiting until he is on steady feet to greet her. “Is it?” he says with a laugh. “I’ve never heard you say anything of the like!”

She smacks him lightly in the arm. “Of course, it is,” she says looking both annoyed and fond all at the same time. “I’ve missed you.”

He feels himself soften. Peculiarly, some of the weight on his shoulders seems to lift. It’s only now, with his sister standing right in front of him, that he realises how much an impact her absence has had. It is so nice to see her again.

“I’ve missed you, too, I suppose,” he grouses fondly. He narrowly avoids her hand, when it flies out to hit him again, and sobers slightly. “We all do. You’ll have to find the time to visit, soon.”

She bows her head a little graciously, nodding. “I will,” she says steadfastly. She turns just as Wallace appears at her side, the two of them orbiting each other with an almost unnerving fluidity. “We’ve almost got the hang of everything here, haven’t we?”

Wallace looks understandably confused, for someone joining a conversation that is halfway through. Still, he isn’t too fazed.

“I hope so?” he says, shooting her a small and bewildered smile before looking back at Louis. “Louis,” he says. “It’s good to see you. I’m glad you were able to come.”

He reaches out and takes Louis’ hand, shaking with a firm grip. He seems to have grown into himself since the wedding, when Louis saw him last. Not that Louis knew him that well to begin with — but there is a sense of confidence in the man that hadn’t been present on their last meeting.

“I’m glad to be here,” Louis replies. He drops Wallace’s hand and looks at the both of them. “The invitation couldn’t have come at a better time. It fact, it is a welcome reprieve.”

Charlotte’s eyes narrow a little at that, her brows furrowing slightly. She doesn’t say anything, but Louis has no doubt she’ll bring it up at a later time.

Wallace simply smiles. “Well then,” he says. “In that case, we are even happier to have you. Please, come inside. I’m sure Charlotte would like to show you the grounds.”

Charlotte flushes slightly at that. Louis has heard from his mother how much work Charlotte has placed into the presentation of her new home, and Louis is certainly interested in finding out how she has fared. It fills him with a bizarre sense of pride, one that is almost condescending in its nature, seeing his sister traipse so brazenly into this new life of hers.

Naturally, he nods and follows them inside.

.

It takes Charlotte less than two hours to spot the change in him.

It’s slightly discouraging, if only because he’d thought he’d been hiding it better. But he might have known — the women in his family have always had a knack for noticing the little things, and Charlotte in particular has always had a keen eye.

He can’t be sure what it is that tips her off.  He has worked so hard the past few days to behave as he normally would — making jokes and poking fun — but what worked with his old school friends is evidently not enough to fool his own flesh and blood.

Whatever it is that gives him away, Charlotte is showing him the rose gardens — or what will be a rose garden when Spring finally arrives — when she decides that she has had enough.

“You know,” she says casually, as they stroll down the pebbled path. “I’m going to figure it out.”

Louis frowns. “What?”

“Whatever it is, the thing that’s been weighing on your mind,” Charlotte clarifies. She sounds as effortless as ever, like they’re still discussing when the flowers might bloom. “I will puzzle it out of you.”

Louis swallows. It’s something they’d used to do as children — figuring out each other’s secrets and making a game of it.

This secret isn’t one to be handled so lightly.

“It’s probably best that you don’t,” Louis tells her quietly. He shoots her a quick smile, but that is all he can manage.

Without anything to distract him, Harry settles back in Louis’ head. Flashes of their last encounter flicked in front of Louis’ mind and he does his best to push them aside.

When Charlotte smiles back at him, the shape of her mouth is equally sad. “I don’t believe that,” she tells him. “It’s always been my job to keep you out of your own head.”

That, Louis thinks, is a battle Charlotte cannot fathom.

“Tell me more about the garden,” Louis says.

Something disappointed lingers in her eyes when Louis lifts his head and looks at her, but he pays it no mind. Thankfully, she concedes.

He should have known better than to trust it, though.

After Charlotte has shown him around, she gives Louis a chance to settle into the rooms they’ve given him. He unpacks where he needs to and takes a quick rest, shutting his eyes for a measure of minutes and fighting to get back in control. Harry lingers in his mind, the pressure of him heavy now in Louis’ solitude. Lying there, Louis is able to think for the first time about what Harry might be doing at that exact second?

Was he working? Was he entertaining his mother and his sister? Or worse, was he wooing the Lady Catherine — who’d been so persistent the night of the ball?

The thought of it makes Louis’ stomach turn, but he can’t quite manage to push it away. His mind jumps to the little things, the insignificant parts of Harry that Lady Catherine can’t leave her mark on.

Is he wearing his hair up, Louis wonders, or wearing it down? If he is taking her Ladyship for a walk around the grounds of Rosewood — does he do it in his overcoat, or his tails? If they are taking tea in the Rosewood dining room, what particular shade of pink has the hot water turned Harry’s lips?

Louis lifts his hands to his hair, in favour of letting them wander anywhere else. The echo of Harry’s touch has plagued him like a phantom for days now and with it the impulse for Louis to run his fingers all over the same places. That, at least, is an instinct he has yet to cave to.

The call for dinner cannot come soon enough.

As they are served, they talk about menial things. Wallace enquires after Louis’ stay in London and Louis tells him about his visits with his friends and about one of the restaurants they’d visited. They talk about Louis’ small property in London and how it has been kept in his absence and about his future plans for it. He asks after the state of the house, asks what could possibly be left with all the work that they have already done.

The small talks falls to the wayside soon enough.

“Tell me about home,” Charlotte says to him across the table. “I have to hear about everything that I’ve missed. ”

That, at least, Louis can understand. He can only imagine how desperate he would be to hear of his family, if he were the one to marry and move away.

“Everyone is well,” Louis says. “I’m sure Mother has said as much in her letters, but they are in good spirits. Daisy and Phoebe grow louder by the day.”

Charlotte chuckles. “Oh, I’m sure,” she says, eye bright. “It must be a struggle to find them things to do.”

Louis smiles ruefully. “I believe their lessons keep them mostly occupied, but I admire their tutor. I would have given up the ghost by now, if I were her.”

Charlotte turns to Wallace. “They’ve got the most frightfully wonderful energy about them,” she says — and Louis recalls that Wallace has only met them once or twice as well. “Always bouncing off the walls.”

Wallace laughs. “They are certainly related to you, then, I see.”

“Who do you think taught them to wreak havoc?” Louis agrees.

“Hush,” Charlotte scolds him, “I was the perfect lady.”

Both Louis and Wallace laugh at that one. It’s a pleasant surprise, to find that Charlotte is so open around her new husband. It seems like a silly worry now, but Louis had always had fears that she might end up with someone that didn’t agree with her lively temperament. He’d seen more than enough excited ladies turn demure and quiet once they’d found a ring on their fingers — and the idea of Charlotte doing the same shook him to his bone.

He couldn’t have been more wrong, though, and he is so glad about it. Wallace seems to thrive off Charlotte’s enthusiasm.

 _It makes sense,_ a voice reminds him. _They were made for each other, after all._

He shakes the thought away. That path does not lead him to the right places, especially not at the dinner table. He can save those kinds of thoughts for when he is alone.

“Tell me about Félicité, then,” Charlotte says. “Her letters have been less frequent, as of late.”

She looks a little sadder when she says this and Louis doesn’t like that at all.

“She is simply busy,” he reassures her. “Lady Gemma has been keeping her quite preoccupied. They are almost constant companions, these days.”

Charlotte seems to understand that — or, at least, looks a little less upset. “Oh, of course,” she says. “I’d forgotten Mother said that she’d returned to Rosewood. I can’t believe I missed her by only a few days.”

“It was a little more than that,” Louis reasons. “Lord Styles passed about a month after the wedding, and she didn’t arrive until a week after that.”

“We were sad to hear of his passing,” Wallace says. “He was a very good friend of my father’s, as it turns out.”

Louis nods. “I’ve heard that a lot, would you know,” he says. “He seems to have been well liked in every corner of England.”

“The same can be said for his son, so I’ve heard,” Wallace says. “Everyone who knows him from Eton says he’s a chap of the most agreeable sort.”

— And Christ, if that doesn’t punch the air clean out of Louis’ lungs. It isn’t unexpected, but it takes him off guard nonetheless. Louis hadn’t had time to prepare and therefore possessed no ability to stop himself stilling at the mention of Harry.

Charlotte catches the move, because _of course_ she does, and frowns. Blessedly, she doesn’t say anything.

“He is,” Louis hastens to say, hoping that his reaction had gone unnoticed by Wallace at least. “Very similar to his father, I think.”

Wallace hums and nods, continuing to eat his food. Louis counts his lucky stars, all the while cursing himself for his foolishness.

“I thought he was lovely,” Charlotte says.

It is enough to drag Louis away from berating himself. “What?” he says. “You’ve met?”

Charlotte nods. “Just the once,” she says. “Back when the family first arrived. You were still at Cambridge, I think.”

Louis stares at her. He’s not sure why he suddenly feels so wrong-footed but — it’s just that —

This had seemed like a safe place. Or, perhaps, _safe_ isn’t the right word. It had seemed like a refuge of some kind, free from the influence of Harry Styles and his damned gentle nature.

It threw him off to find that he had managed to touch even here, and that his sister and her husband already held Harry in a high regard.

“And you, uh,” Louis begins. “You liked him?”

Charlotte shrugs, nonplussed. Louis is certain she is still cataloguing his strange behaviour in her head, but she is behaving as natural as ever. “Oh, certainly,” she says. “He was incredibly charming.”

Wallace lets out a little harrumph. “Careful, darling,” he jokes. “You might make me jealous.”

Charlotte raises a brow at him. “Really?” she says. “Now wouldn’t that be entertaining.”

It seems like a shared joke, just for the two of them, and Louis feels a little uncomfortable witnessing it. It reminds him again how uncannily they suit each other, how well they have meshed their two selves into one unit.

It twinges at his mark, like a sharp little pinch. The memory of Harry’s heavy hand pressing down over the mark startles into his mind, which in turn makes an entirely separate part of his body twitch in interest.

 _Confound it all_ , Louis thinks, digging his fingers into the flesh above his knee. Perhaps he should have stayed in the city after all.

Charlotte doesn’t give him time to linger on the thought, snatching his attention back with, “What did you think of him, Louis?”

Christ.

What does Louis think of Lord Harry Styles?

There aren’t enough hours in the day for him to explain.

He tries anyway.

“He is,” Louis begins, searching for a word that won’t immediately give him away, “diligent. That is to say, he is a hard worker.” He flounders slightly, feeling hot under the collar and far too exposed at the small dining table. The words begin to spill from him, stumbling across his lips. “He has taken everything these last few months have thrown at him and handled it with a remarkable determination. It was very impressive — uh, I mean, I was impressed by him, by his abilities. 

Charlotte hums as Louis forces his jaw shut, cursing himself. Has he _no_ self control?

“Your father spoke very highly of him, I must say,” Wallace chimes in. “I can only imagine how difficult his situation must be.”

Bizarrely, despite everything and despite himself, Louis finds a part of him swelling with pride. It is _good_ to hear that people are recognising Harry’s talents, that his strength and his determination have not gone unnoticed.

But it is not his place to feel such things. That belongs to his family, to his mother and to his sister who have always seen the good in him. What right does Louis have to the feeling?

 _It’s your right more than anyone’s_ , a small voice sings to him.

Louis reaches for his wine glass and takes a long sip.

“I think it’s admirable,” Charlotte says. “He must be so overwhelmed the poor man. It would be hard enough inheriting the land alone, let alone the title along with it. He mustn’t get a moment’s peace.”

Wallace hums along in agreement. “His name certainly doesn’t rest in London,” he says. “He’s the talk of the town. Almost every lady with a name worth anything is vying for the chance to meet him.”

Charlotte shrugs. “Understandable, I suppose,” she sighs. “An eligible bachelor with an appealing title and less than thirty years is hard to come by.”

She must take whatever awful expression she sees on Louis’ face as a sign of offence, because she shushes him before he can even begin to think how to respond to that.

“Your name is just as desirable, don’t fret,” she reassures him — as if that could have anything to do with the sharp, twisting feeling that tugs at his gut. “It’s just that he’s something new. Mother told me about all the interest he garnered at the dance you attended. Apparently he’s spoilt for choice.”

Louis would really like to take another drink, he thinks, but there isn’t enough wine in the world that would satisfy him. Besides, he’d probably only heave it back up — what with the state his stomach was now in.

“I’d be surprised if he doesn’t have a bride before the year is up,” Charlotte says. A thought seems to occur to her in the following second, and she shoots Louis an incredibly pointed look. “That said, you mustn’t let him get in your way. It’s about time you settled down as well, you know.”

Louis laughs at that, entirely unable to help himself.

Charlotte and Wallace seem slightly bewildered by his reaction — but hell, Louis thinks. If they knew the truth of it, they’d be laughing as well.

.

Wallace retires early that night. He claims to be tired from a day of hard work — ‘he spent the whole morning making sure everything was in order so that he wouldn’t be distracted when you arrived,’ Charlotte had explained — but Louis doesn’t miss the glance she shoots Wallace as he walks out the door, leaving them both alone in the drawing room.

It’s a grateful kind of smile, but Louis knows better than to trust it. So this is some kind of devious plan then, he surmises, and entirely of his sister’s making.

True enough, they enjoy barely half an hour of idle conversation before Charlotte makes her motive known.

“Mother tells me that you’ve been distracted,” she says, interrupting him halfway through a story about Phoebe and Daisy and their poor, overwhelmed tutor.  

Louis frowns. Inexplicably, he looks around a little — almost worried that his mother is going to burst out of the curtains or something.

“In her letters, Louis,” Charlotte says, seemingly reading his mind. She sounds exasperated, but Louis figures he has a good excuse at least. The accusation seemed to come entirely out of the blue. “She says that you haven’t been yourself.”

As it is, he flounders. “She is just worrying herself,” he hastens to explain. He stands, his hands searching for something to do, and heads for the decanter of port that sits on the mantle.

“Félicité says as much, too, when she writes,” Charlotte continues, as though he hasn’t said a thing. “That you’ve taken to hiding in your room. That you don’t smile nearly as much.”

Louis feels a little bit winded, hearing that. To think that his sister, let alone his mother, has noticed his change in mood is one thing — but to hear it put so plainly is a striking blow. Of _course_ he still smiles.

Doesn’t he?

“Initially mother thought it was because of me,” Charlotte says. Louis keeps his back to her, but he can still feel her watching him with keen eyes. Louis has no doubt that she is once again cataloguing and making note of his every reaction. “She thought that you were worried I wouldn’t be happy, or something silly like that. Have you been worried over me, Louis?”

Louis shakes his head. The room, which had felt so comfortable only seconds previously, now feels far too small. The small fire in the corner seems to be sucking all the air away from him.

“No,” he says hastily. He fills his crystal glass and shakily sets the decanter down. “Of course, not. You’re happy here, with Wallace, anyone could see that.”

Charlotte hums. “That’s what I thought. You certainly haven’t shown any kind of animosity to Wallace today, or any other day for that matter.”

Louis takes a deep breath, nodding his head furiously. “I haven’t,” he agrees. It is difficult to put his thoughts together when he has so little room to move, so when he finally manages it, the words come out jarred and disjointed. “I have no reason to. He is a good man. You seem so happy, Lots.”

For a second, his sister’s shrewd gaze softens. With thoughts of her husband, Louis thinks, but the use of her childhood nickname might have played its own small part.

Charlotte smiles a little, a pink blush forming on her cheeks. “I am,” she says quietly.

Louis keeps nodding his head. “See?” he says. “How could I begrudge him that?”  

When her gaze flickers back to him though, the look of determined concern is so like his mother’s that he is almost floored with it.

“You have been behaving differently, though,” she says. “Even just this afternoon, you have not been yourself.” 

Louis’ gaze shutters and he looks to the ground. There is a beautiful rug on the floor, a rich red colour with detailing in a fine and intricate gold. He follows the lines he sees there, rather than look his sister in the eyes.

If Félicité and his mother have noticed his change in mood, then it only stands to reason that so too has the rest of his family. What must Mark think, every time he sees Louis? How confused must Phoebe and Daisy be?

He’d thought that he was faring well — or, if not well, than at least alright — shouldering this on his own.

A flash of Harry appears before him, of the dark room they’d shared and what they’d shared within it. He thinks of Harry’s heavy eyes and the mere inches that had separated their lips and the heat, at his hip, at his heart, that had fought so hard to consume him.

He’d thought he had been managing it.

When Charlotte stands from her seat, he hears the movement instead of seeing it.

“We are worried about you, Louis,” she tells him softly. “We just want to know that everything is alright.”

Carefully, she settles her small palm on his back, in the spot right between his shoulder blades. It’s an odd kind of mimicry of something she used to do when they were children, something she’d long since grown out of — when she’d turned from a girl to a lady. Whenever Louis was bothering her particularly much, she would dig her fingers into exactly the same spot and pinch at his spine, screeching at him to leave her alone. This time, the touch is nothing but tender.

It strikes him then that his sister is exactly as she always has been. Marriage hasn’t filled her with knowledge or wisdom, hasn’t changed her in the slightest. Not where it counts, at least.

“Is everything alright, Louis?” she asks, carefully. “Are you?”

Louis gazes up at her, his eyes searching her face. His heart seems to thunder in his ears.

“No,” he finds himself replying. “No, I don’t think I am.”

He’s not sure what Charlotte can see on his face, but he can certainly see her taking it all in. She watches him for a silent beat, then another, before slowly beginning to nod her head. She doesn’t embrace him, like Félicité or his mother might, but she does guide him gently to the chaise. She uses only the hand on his back to do it, and doesn’t remove it even when she sits down next to him.

“Tell me,” she says firmly. “Whatever it is, I will help.”

Louis stares down at the glass in his hands. It carries with it a heady smell that only a well weathered port can possess. He can’t tell whether the scent of it clouds or clears his mind.

This could be the biggest mistake of his entire life, he thinks.

But this is _Charlotte._

“I found them, Lots,” he says, his voice a wrecked and ruined thing.

Charlotte inhales sharply. There is no doubt that she has caught his meaning, not with this. Despite the innocence of the words themselves, everyone and their mother knew not to throw them around lightly.

And of course, of course, because this is Charlotte, she also hears something else.

“Them?” she echoes carefully.

Louis lets out an ugly little sob. “Him,” he corrects himself, the word thundering through his veins. “Oh, _God._ I found _him._ ”

It is hard to say, how he feels when the words finally escape him. It isn’t the lifting of a weight — no, the pressure of the small room and everything Charlotte might be thinking in that moment is far too much for that — but it is something similar. A release, perhaps.

“Oh,” Charlotte breathes. “Oh, I see.”

He waits for the moment she moves her hand, but it doesn’t come. It stays, a present weight lingering on his back exactly the same way it had five seconds earlier. It confuses him, when he realises, and he turns to look at her.

She looks pale, but that is only to be expected. Aside from the faded colouring of her cheeks, she seems mostly unaffected — like she is simply caught up in her thoughts. Her eyes are set, but not with anger. Instead they mimic her father’s, alive with a determined glint similar to his whenever he makes a particularly bold business decision.

“Well,” she says finally, taking a deep breath. “At least your behaviour of late makes a little more sense, now.”

Louis lets out a wet huff, staring at her incredulously.

She shrugs. “You should tell me about him,” she says.

She doesn’t shy away from the word even one second, the request sounding as natural as ever. As if she was asking about some girl Louis’ met in town — not his soulmate, who Louis has just told her is very much a _man_.

“Really?” he says.

She nods. If it is a little shaky, Louis is too shocked to care. 

“What’s his name?” she asks gently.

Christ, his _sister._

“Harry,” he says. “His name is Harry Styles.” He watches her eyes go round with realisation and suddenly wishes he’d seen her face when he’d said ‘him.’ He wonders what shocks her more, that his soulmate is a man or that his soulmate is the new Earl of Harrisson.

“Oh, Louis,” she says.

He nods, because he understands. It’s exactly the reaction such a reveal deserves. He looks back to his port and considers throwing the whole lot back in one fell swoop, but he doesn’t. Instead, with his sister there to listen, the words seem to spill from him.

 _Tell me about him_ , she’d said.

“It’s — he’s everything, Lots. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s almost as though I can’t remember a time in my life without him in it. I mean, I can, of course, but I find that I don’t want to. He’s too much. He’s kind, and he’s strong, and he’s so, so brave. Braver than I’ve ever been.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Charlotte says, and it’s only then that she moves. Her other hand, the one that isn’t settled on his back, comes down to rest on his arm. “You’re the bravest person that I know.”

Louis laughs at that as well. He thinks of all the times that he’s dashed Harry’s hopes, only for the boy to build them back up again. He thinks of how ready Harry had been to embrace him, on the very first night they’d met, and how he’d been willing to give Louis yet another chance the night they’d last seen each other.

“Not compared to him,” he says.

Charlotte shakes her head. “You’re here, aren’t you? Telling me all this?”

“That’s nothing,” Louis thinks, “He wants to tell everyone.” That isn’t right, not really. He tries again. “I mean, I don’t think he’d care if everybody knows. It doesn’t seem to matter to him.”

That still wasn’t right — not with the way Harry has so carefully navigated around the subject of his sister and his mother — but it’s closer, at least.

Charlotte considers Louis for a long, quiet moment. Then, she says, “He must love you an awful amount.”

And, Christ, if that doesn’t shake Louis to his very core. 

“How can he?” Louis asks. He hands are shaking now, the crystal glass wobbling in his grasp. It upsets the liquid within it, so much that Louis’ only option is to put the damned thing down. When he does, it slams against the wooden table with slightly more force than necessary. “He doesn’t even know me!”

“He’s your soulmate, Louis!” Charlotte says.

She raises her voice a little, to be heard over Louis’ frantic words, and the two of them freeze with it — both of them falling silent, waiting to see if someone comes to investigate. No one does.

When Charlotte speaks again, her voice is soft once more. She squeezes her hand over his wrist, almost imploringly.

“How did it feel?” she asks, “When you found out?”

“That isn’t—” he says, “I can’t—”

“When I found Wallace it was like all the stars aligned,” Charlotte presses onward, as though she has realised her brother is only going to flounder at her. “It was like everything else in the universe came second to him, and I wanted nothing more than to be in his company until the day I died. That hasn’t changed, Louis. And I don’t think it has for you, either.”

Louis can’t stop shaking his head. “He’s—” he says, “Charlotte, he’s a man. He’s an _Earl_! I can’t—”

“Do you care?” Charlotte demands.

“What? Of _course,_ I have to—”

“I didn’t ask if you have to,” Charlotte interrupts him. “I ask if you _do_.”

Louis gapes at her.

“The way I see it,” she says, before Louis has the chance to reply — as though he has anything to possibly reply _with_ — “You have a choice, and it is a difficult one. Wallace and I had a time of making it work, and we had everything on our side. But what I can tell you is this: I would do anything for him. I would move mountains for him if I had to, and I would do it if he were a beggar or a prince. You must decide if the same can be said for you.”

The answer to that, at least, is simple. Yes, Louis thinks, and so he says it. “Of course,” he tells her, “I would help him with anything he wanted.”

Astoundingly, Charlotte shakes her head. “But everything you have just told me points to the contrary, Louis,” she says.

Something hot and indignant rears in him, hearing that. He startles back a little, shooting her a deep frown and wondering what the hell she could mean by that. Harry deserves every good thing in the world, Louis knows. He deserves to have a happy family and a happy future and more than anything, Louis wants to help that happen.

“What?” he says. “How can you say that? All I want is to see him happy!”

“You said yourself, he would be happy with you!”

And that—

That.

That stops him short.

“I—” he says, and stops.

Charlotte’s voice turns gentle. “I can see where you’re coming from,” she says. “And I understand, I do. I won’t belittle the choice you have to make by telling you what to do, or what to decide. But you should know that if Wallace ever told me that I would be better off without him, then I would fight tooth and nail to prove him wrong.”

She squeezes his wrist one last time, before finally letting go. The hand on his back leaves as well, as she stands and pats her skirts down.

“I’ll leave you to think on it,” she says quietly, and then she does.

Louis doesn’t leave the room for a very, very long time.

♣

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love, love, love to hear your thoughts and feedback on this chapter! As always, your comments are pretty much the best thing in my life, especially with my crazy stressful new job (which uh oh, I'm still not sure if I like or not?????) so pretty please keep them coming! 
> 
> Look out for the next update Friday week - I'll do my absolute best to keep on track!!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a little faster this time, but I'm still sorry to make you all wait. I went over and over this chapter, trying to get it perfect, so I really hope that you like it!

♣

**8.**

He leaves Charlotte’s home late the following day. He doesn’t speak much more with his sister, never granted the opportunity to pull her aside without Wallace’s company, but the day is filled with meaningful looks from her and Louis thinks he knows what she means by them. 

They embrace each other before he departs and she smiles brightly up at him. “Have a safe trip,” she tells him. “I hope to hear happier things, next time I ask about you.”

Louis smiles down at her. It is only a little shaky, which he considers a personal victory. “I will write you myself, this time,” he says. He takes a step back then, and addresses her and her husband. “You will visit soon?”

“You couldn’t keep us away,” Charlotte says.

The ride home is shorter than it had been when he’d left — mostly because they’re allowed to bypass London entirely. Louis spends the time caught in his own head, considering the same thoughts that have lingered since his conversation with Charlotte. He repeats the same questions to himself, every time coming up with new answers.

The jolt of the carriage becomes almost reassuring to him as they roll down the road. Stones and pebbles catch the wheels in a way that never allows him to be entirely consumed by his thoughts, and come as a blessed relief.

They only slow when they reach town, and Louis’ heart thrills when he realises how close he is to home.

The small front panel slides open, and Louis is greeted with the footman’s happy face. He, too, had been glad for their detour around London, and the shorter journey, it had seemed. Louis’ couldn’t blame him — the stale air in London was always so much more stifling than the crisp country wind.

“To Mayfield then, my Lord?” the footman asks.

“No,” Louis says. “To Rosewood, if you don’t mind. There is something I’d like to discuss with the Earl.”

The words come out a little jilted, and although the footman nods and accepts it like he would any other of Louis’ requests, Louis decides he must figure out how to behave more naturally. That hadn’t even been a lie — although the subject of their discussion was certainly not so easily explained.

The carriage speeds up a little more, as they leave the busier town streets and head further out into the country. Rosewood is not a huge distance, though, and only too soon do the wheels begin to slow for a second time.

The house, as recognizable as it always has been to Louis, suddenly feels rather large and imposing. Louis shakes the feeling as quickly as he can — the House has always been as familiar to him as Mayfield, and he had no reason to fear it now.

_Save for the person it keeps,_ a voice reminds him as the carriage rolls to a stop. _There is certainly a lot to fear from him._

But it isn’t fear that Louis feels, as he approaches the house. There is a surge of adrenaline, that much is to be sure — the kind that lights his blood like fire and has him curling his hands into fists in an effort to control the feeling — but nothing quite akin to actual fear.

This is Harry, he reminds himself. Just Harry.

He makes his way to the front door and the mark on his hip seems to thrill with anticipation. It has been doing that the entire journey home. Since the night previously, as it happens, when Louis had finally come to terms with his decision.

“Lord Tomlinson,” the Rosewood butler greets him at the door. Louis has met him a couple of times, enough now that he should be able to recall his name — but he can’t. Not at the moment, at least, with so much already on his mind. “I’m sorry, we weren’t expecting you.”

Louis hastens to reassure him. “I’m the one who must apologise,” he says, “I should have called ahead. I’m here to speak with Lord Harry.”

The butler nods. “Certainly, my Lord,” he says. He directs Louis through the front rooms of the house and leads him into the parlour. “I’ll go and tell the Earl that you’re here.”

“Thank you,” Louis says. He really should try and remember the man’s name, he thinks. Roger, perhaps? Robert?

The butler departs, leaving Louis alone in the empty room. There are a few books sitting around the room, clearly left there for the entertainment of those waiting there — but Louis knows he doesn’t have the patience to read now. In fact, he can’t think of anything that could possibly take his mind off the task at hand. The idea of trying to sit down and focus enough to read, to submerge himself inside a story, sounds positively exhausting.

Instead, he satisfies himself looking around the room. He takes in the large pink curtains which, he can see upon closer observation, are detailed with an elegant white lace. They match the upholstery of the chairs that sit around the small sitting table, and are complemented by a white and pink tea set that sits to the side, unused.

It’s the kind of room Charlotte had spoke of wanting for her own house. He would have to mention it to her, Louis reminds himself, when he writes. He’s sure she’d like to see it when she did eventually come down and visit them.

He wonders what else Charlotte might like to see, when she arrives. What she might, perhaps, be _expecting_ to see?

His heartbeat ratchets up another notch.

The door opens. Harry stands in the doorway, his eyes wide, with the butler on his heels. He doesn’t seem to have rushed, looking as calm and put together as ever, save for the informality of his dress. His jacket was conspicuously missing, a plain white shirt draping delicately from his shoulders and gaping slightly at his throat. It would have been a scandal for him to greet anyone else in such a state — but the sight of it now simply reminds Louis that this is not the first time he has seen Harry dressed like this.

Memory of the soft first touch of Harry’s hand, hidden away in Mark’s study, flashes through Louis’ mind. It’s hot in this room, he realises, under the weight of Harry’s stare.

There is something frantic in the set of his eyes that Louis hopes the butler hasn’t seen. If he has, surely the man will be polite enough to ignore it — but will he hide it from the downstairs gossip?

This is his future, Louis realises, if he decides to continue down his path. Constantly wondering who has seen what and what they might do with that information.

“Louis,” Harry greets him, sounding a little breathless. “You’re back.”

The sound of Harry’s low voice soothes Louis’ thoughts in a way that he doesn’t expect. He can work with this, he realises. He’s a fantastic liar, under normal circumstances. And Harry’s happiness to see him is nothing that can’t be explained.

“I’m back,” he says, his eyes flicking back to the butler only once. “I spoke to my solicitor as you asked.”

Harry looks confused, but only for a second. His back seems to straighten as realisation hits him and he nods. “Ah,” he says, “Fantastic. You gave him my questions?”

He isn’t a bad liar either, it appears. Something twists and tightens in Louis’ stomach, at the thought.

“I did,” Louis says.

“Well then, I’m sure that we have a lot to discuss.” Harry turns to the butler and smiles. “Lord Tomlinson and I will be in the library, should anyone need us.”

It is as easy as that, then. The butler nods and departs, leaving the two of them alone.

For a beat, they simply watch each other.

“Louis,” Harry says again. It seems almost like a different word, said so softly.

Louis smiles, but says, “The library, you said?”

Harry seems to take a second to register the words, but then he nods his head slowly. The weight of his gaze makes Louis feel hot under his collar. The compulsion to rub at his mark, to settle the stinging feeling, is almost overwhelming — but Louis controls himself.

“Right,” Harry finally says. “Follow me.”

He leads Louis through the house, glancing away only when he stumbles a little up the stairs. There is an odd look on his face, a flush that has settled high on his cheeks and a small, uncertain smile. The sight of it rolls something in Louis’ gut, and he aches to replace the look with something more familiar. Harry’s sweet dimples, perhaps.

He drops a little behind as he follows Harry through the Rosewood halls. Louis catches himself admiring the long stretch of Harry’s legs, the cut of the white shirt and the way that it drapes from his shoulders. It is a different look than Louis is used to. He is absent his high collar and tailored jacket, or even his fine leather shoes. What he wears now seems more weathered, more relaxed — reserved for private eyes only.

A shiver thrills down Louis’ spine, settling low.

He follows Harry until they reach an elegantly carved wooden door. The handle sticks a little when Harry tries it first, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. He jolts the door with an ease born only from regular practice, and then leads Louis inside.

“Come in, come in,” Harry beckons at him. He seems flustered, like he can’t quite manage to stand comfortable and makes up for it by shifting on his feet.

It is a small room, and the books that line the floor to ceiling only succeed in making it feel smaller. There is a tall window, framed by heavy curtains that are pulled aside to let the sun spill in. It lights up the dust in the air, and the lateness of hour gives the room an almost orange glow. It feels warm inside, from the brown mahogany of the bookshelves to the worn leather chairs.

As Louis pauses to take it all in, Harry finally chooses a place to stand. He stops on the other side of the room, close to the window, and folds his arms across his chest.

It is the most reserved he has ever been with Louis, and yet there is still something bright lingering in his eyes.

“How was London?” Harry asks.

Louis ducks his head and searches for the words. He’s had hours to think of the right thing to say, has been trying to figure it out since his conversation with Charlotte the night before, and yet he still draws short.

“It was good,” is what he eloquently decides on. “Cold. Busy. As it always is.”

Harry nods his head, but doesn’t say anything. He seems happy to stand back and wait for Louis to continue, so Louis does.

“I spoke to my solicitor, as I said, and spent a few days on business. I saw some friends from my university days. It was — it was productive.”

Most of it is rubbish; a random stream of words that Louis hoped would fill the space, more than provide any real insight. It’s the last one that catches Harry’s attention though, something in his eyes turning sharp.

His eyes dart away from Louis’ and settling on the floor. He readjusts his arms, still held tightly in front of him, his fingers flexing at his elbows.

“Productive?” he echoes.

Louis snaps his jaw shut, and swallows. It feels like Harry is asking a thousand questions, all wrapped up in one simple word. Which questions, however, he cannot know — and that certainly doesn’t help in finding the answers.  

For the moment he can only guess at the meaning that lies hidden underneath Harry’s words.

He watches him carefully, taking note of the subdued set of Harry’s brow, and nods.

“Yes,” he says.

He watches as Harry swallows. The muscles at his jaw clench. 

“And your sister’s home?” Harry asks next. His words come with a quiet softness, and hang in the air the same way the sunlight does. “Was your visit productive there, as well?”

The words strike so close to home that Louis almost laughs, but he manages to swallow the impulse down.

He does, however, allow himself to smile.

“I think so,” he says. 

As much as he would like, this is not a confession to be given without care. The Harry that stands before him has had the same amount of time to think as Louis has — and it’s entirely possible that he’s come to his own new conclusion. Perhaps he has decided that Louis isn’t worth it after all — that the name and legacy that his father left him is far more deserving of his time and energy.

It would be good, if he had, but Louis hopes, with everything within him, that he hasn’t.  

He takes an aborted step forward before he can help himself. Harry’s name escapes him like a sigh, like a plea.

“Harry—”

“Have you made a decision, then?” Harry interrupts him, quickly. His normally slow words spill out in a rush, and he looks around the room once more, avoiding Louis’ eye. After a moment, he finally stops and stares at the floor. “I suppose you must have. You’ve certainly had enough time to think on the matter.”

He glances up at Louis once more. It’s a fleeting look, so quick and furtive that it seems almost guilty, but it is enough for Louis to understand.

_Christ above_ , he thinks.

“And you’re here, aren’t you?” Harry continues, blind to the realisation that’s rocking Louis to his very core. “You certainly wouldn’t have come if you didn’t have an answer for me, so I must surmise that you’ve come here at least to tell me that—”

“You still have hope?” Louis says.

The question startles both of them. Harry’s mouth shuts with an audible snap, a lovely pink rising high on his cheeks.

He stares at Louis for a resolute moment. Then, “Yes,” he says. “I do.”

It is unfathomable, Louis thinks, that this boy can believe in him so steadfastly — while all their history suggests he do the contrary. What sense of goodness must he possess, to have faith in someone who has so often let him down?

The silence leaves room for Harry to frown.

“And,” he says, when Louis fails to reply, “You will find that I continue to have hope long after this conversation is finished. No matter how foolish you may think me to be.” He says it almost defensively, challenging Louis to shoot him down again. It’s the kind of resilience other men would dream of, and it feels Louis with an overwhelming sense of pride.

“I do not think you are foolish,” Louis interrupts him starkly.

Harry lifts a brow. “No?” he says.

Louis smiles, a shaky breath escaping him. “On the contrary,” he says, “I think you are the bravest man I know.” He enjoys watching Harry’s physical reaction to the words, the almost comically confused look on his face, but he enjoys the reaction to what follows even more. “And I said as much to my sister, on my visit.”

At this, Harry’s arms, which had been wrapped so securely around his front, drop to his sides. Every inch of his face smooths out into something bewildered and surprised, his breath escaping him in one loud exhale.

“What?” he says.

Louis’ smile grows. “I told my sister that you are the bravest person I have ever met,” he reaffirms.

“You spoke with your sister about me?” Harry breathes.

His eyes are wide with wonder, and the same hope that Harry had thought would earn Louis’ scorn. His lips twitch at the corners, as though he yearns to smile but can’t quite bring himself to do so.

Louis has been a coward for a very long time. Now is the time to be brave.

“Well,” he says, “she enquired after my soulmate. I couldn’t very well leave you out of it, could I?”

A look of such astonishment freezes on Harry’s features that Louis can’t help but grin. His heart seems to thunder, climbing into his throat and setting his veins alight with nerves, but he cannot take it back. More importantly, he finds that he doesn’t want to.

Instead, he watches as Harry’s round and hopeful eyes grow impossibly wider, and his chest begins to heave with the weight of his breathing.

When he speaks, his voice is shakier than Louis has ever heard it — breathless with wonder, and trepidation, and happiness too. “And what did your sister have to say about that?”

Louis’ cheeks seem to ache from the stretch of his smile, a mad sense of joy settling in his bones, but he barely notices. He wants now, more than ever, to be honest and true with Harry — to somehow repay the faith this boy has had in him since the beginning.

“She said that I ought to be brave, too,” he says. “And I’m inclined to agree with her.”

Harry seems to sway towards him. “ _Louis_ ,” he says, the words escaping him with a whisper, “God, do you mean it?”

The warm air feels almost stifling, caught as it is between the two of them. He feels weighed down with the heat of Harry’s wide eyes, but lighter at the same time — finally free of the burden that’s sat on his shoulders for so long.

He is doing this. It is a risk and it will continue to be so, but this young man in front of him is worth it.

“I do,” he says. “I’m still afraid. There’s so much still left to be afraid of.” He takes a deep, heaving breath. “But you were right.”

“I was?” Harry says, his voice wet and ruined. “About — about what?”

Without hesitation, Louis lifts his hand to his mark. A thrill of adrenaline runs through him, with such power he feels almost dizzy, but he doesn’t back down this time. Instead, he presses his hand down firmly.

“There are some things that are deniable, and some things that are not,” Louis says, and his blood sings with the way Harry’s eyes zero in on his hand. “And you and I — it is something that I no longer wish to deny.”

Harry crosses the room like he’s falling.

He seems to stumble in his haste, righting himself only in the last second, leaving bare inches of space between them. His hands flutter awkwardly in the air for a moment, hovering over Louis’ arms. He wide eyes are imploring, begging a question that Harry’s doesn’t have to voice outside.

Louis’ whole body seems to sing with its yearning for Harry’s touch. But he cannot have it — not until he has made himself abundantly clear.

“I do not know if I can be what you want,” Louis says. Words given at their normal pitch seem far too harsh for the small space between them, so instead they spill out of him like a sigh.

Harry is already shaking his head. Some of his hair as fallen into his face, but he makes no attempt to correct it. In this moment, everything in him seems devoted solely to Louis.

“I only want you,” Harry says, his voice whisper soft and reverent. “That is all I have ever wanted.”

All at once, they are kissing.

Harry’s fingers curl around the nape of Louis’ neck, holding him in place while stroking his thumb along the line of Louis’ jaw. There is no time left for Louis’s thoughts to catch up, nothing else to think about now, save for the way that Harry’s tongue plays at the crease of Louis’ lips.

This is it. This is what he has decided to risk everything for — this young man in front of him, with his burning touch and his kind, kind soul.

He opens his mouth to Harry, surging up into the kiss and surrendering to Harry’s embrace. He takes a hold of Harry’s waist — to feel him, to touch him, but also to keep himself from falling.

It is a foreign kind of intimacy, this overwhelming desire that threatens to ruin him. He is not entirely new to this kind of touch — the girls that he’d met during his university days were few and far between, but some of them he’d held in a similar manner. They never affected him like this, though.  

Every part of him seems to ache with a fiery heat, something that both welcomes and surrenders to the stern grasp of Harry’s hands. The scorching thrill that had stung so persistently at his hip finally relents, morphing into a pleasant buzz that spreads quickly through his body.

The thin linen of Harry’s shirt is barely enough to belie the heat of the skin beneath it. The fabric scratches at his palm as he feels out the shape of Harry’s waist, lines of lean muscle giving way to the pressure of Louis’ fingertips.

He searches a little further, following the natural curve of Harry’s body down to his hip. Just the lightest touch there garners a reaction from Harry, a broken little whimper that seems to spill from his lips entirely without permission. It takes Louis a moment to puzzle out the sound, distracted so by Harry’s soft lips and wet tongue, but when he does the realisation shocks him.

Harry had told him once, about his own mark. On the first night they’d met, he’d admitted it freely and without pause. He had been wide eyed and hopeful, even then, and it strikes Louis dumb to realise that nothing has changed.

The faith that Harry has in him is overwhelming, Louis thinks, and certainly undeserved. He will work harder for it from now, he decides. He will make sure that any and every confidence Harry has in him is earned.

An eager desire to drink Harry in pushes Louis up onto his toes. He keeps his touch light, but firm, over Harry’s hip, and uses his free hand to anchor himself on Harry’s shoulder. Even so, he wobbles a little in the endeavour, and has to pause in kissing Harry just for a moment, to steady himself.

In the fraction of space between them, Harry laughs.

The heat of it spills across Louis’ lips, its breathless wonder instantly contagious. Louis can feel the smile tugging at his lips, surely not as wide as the one that dimples Harry’s cheeks, but certainly on its way.

“I—” Harry begins, his gaze darting wildly over Louis’ face. “I’m so glad that you—you can’t know how much I—”

Louis moves his hand from Harry’s shoulder, instead reaching for the sharp corner of Harry’s jaw. He curves his palm there, feeling the soft scratch of Harry’s stubble and nods.

“I know,” he says, soothing his thumb over the high line of Harry’s cheekbone. “I’m sorry that I made you wait.”

Harry shakes his head, but only slightly. The crease at his eyebrows seems to suggest that he doesn’t agree with Louis, but he seems disinclined to move Louis’ hand.

“No,” he says. “You didn’t, I—”

Louis scrapes his nails across the curve of Harry’s hip and the words dissolve into a low, little whine. It is infinitely more welcome than any of the excuses Harry could have made on his behalf, and Louis finds himself rocking closer, almost chasing it.

He presses his nose in against Harry’s neck, breathing him in. There is no way to describe the scent that lingers so strongly there, only that it is intoxicating. There, hidden from Harry’s boundless eyes, Louis tries again.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against Harry’s skin.

Harry is still for a moment, before he brings his hands up to stroke carefully through Louis’ hair. “It’s alright,” he says quietly.

The words, combined with the sensation of Harry’s fingers threading through his hair, are enough to send shivers running down his spine. The cage of Harry’s hands and the heat of his body settle something in Louis, giving peace to his wild and racing thoughts. It’s the same sense of safety and containment that he’d found in Harry’s touch on the night of the dance.

Suddenly, it isn’t enough to simple breathe Harry in. Louis presses a kiss into the exposed skin at Harry’s collar, and then another following Harry’s sharp inhale, and another. With every kiss, his body begins to awaken — from the gooseflesh rising on his arms to the warm and welcome stirring in his groin.

He moves his hand on Harry’s hip again, and basks in the broken, almost grieving sound it earns him. He begins to bare his teeth, biting and nipping at Harry’s sensitive flesh as he tries to puzzle out exactly what it is that he wants.

“I want,” Louis tries, no gasps, as Harry tugs exquisitely at his hair. “I want—”

He is pulled away from Harry’s neck so swiftly that he doesn’t have the chance to register it. By the time he does, Harry is already cradling his hand and kissing him once more.

“Anything,” Harry says, when they once again part for breath. “Louis, you can have anything.”

_God above,_ Louis thinks. _This boy._

This time, when his fingers move across Harry’s hip, it is almost accidental. Reacting to Harry’s words, and to the unflinching trust carried within them, Louis grasps desperately at Harry — yearning to somehow pull him closer. Harry whines with it, though, his eyelids fluttering beautifully as he seems to give himself to the feeling and suddenly Louis knows exactly the right words.

His throat goes dry with the thought, as it occurs to him. When he wets his lips, Harry’s eyes track the movement.

“I want to touch you,” Louis says, pushing the words into the air between them before he can think better of it. He rubbed his thumb over the same spot, cataloguing the stunning reaction painted across Harry’s face. “I — here. I would like to touch you here.”

For a moment, the thought shakes him. The idea that he has asked too much, that Harry might refuse him causes something cold fall over him. It only grows at the realisation that Harry won’t do that — that he trusts Louis with his body as much as he trusts him with his heart. But then, when Louis has Harry’s permission, what then?

How in the world can Louis approach this task with the respect that it deserves? What did the first congregant do, when they were given a temple to worship?

In the fraction of a pause that Louis is given to consider all this, Harry doesn’t hesitate. He smiles, swallows and slowly nods his head.

Given the choice between keeping that smile on Harry’s face and disappointing him for the thousandth time, the decision is easy. Thank God, then, that improvisation has always been a talent of his.

Gathering his courage, Louis sets his shoulders and then gently guides Harry backwards. He already feels as if he might float away at any moment. Pressing Harry against the back of the leather couch behind him is the only natural answer, tethering them both to something tangible, something real.

This is happening, Louis realises a thousand times over. They are here, the choice has been made, and this is where it had led them.

When Harry’s legs bump against the leather seat back, he stops — just for a moment — to touch his hand to Louis’ cheek.

“I would see you as well,” he says, “If you would permit me.”

Head rushes to Louis’ cheeks, gravitating towards Harry’s soft touch. “Of course,” Louis says, because he means it. _Of course._

They watch each other for a long moment, Louis’ lips stinging with the absence of Harry’s. That feeling, alone, is enough to spurn Louis to action. Kissing Harry isn’t frightening; it’s something he is already learning to do, so it seems as best a spot as any to begin.

He is tentative, this time, in his approach. He smooths the flat of his palms out against Harry’s body, and leans in ever so slowly. Harry seems content to let Louis move at his own pace, staying exactly where Louis has put him, simply watching. They only break eye contact in the very last second, when their lips touch and Louis’ eyelids flutter closed.

Harry’s lips are pillow soft and welcoming, but they are also distracting. Louis lets himself sink into it for just a moment, revelling in the touch, before he pulls away and closes his fist around the fabric of Harry’s shirt.

He focuses on the wet pinkness of Harry’s mouth as he pulls the fabric free from Harry’s breeches. Then, when it finally tugs loose, he doesn’t allow himself a second to pause and think about his next move. He simply feels, and slides his hand up Harry’s side to meet his hot, bare skin.

The air seems to still between them. They both let out a little noise, barely more than a breathy exhale. Harry’s skin is silky smooth and searing hot, and just the first touch is enough for Louis to lose all coherent thought. He maps out the shape of Harry’s torso, memorises every sound that his touch evokes, and tries not to drown in it.

“Could you—?” Louis says, once again fighting to find the right words. “Will you—? Can I take it off?”

Harry nods, once again without pause. Anything quick or hasty seems almost too harsh for the warm, soft space they’ve hidden away for themselves — so Louis keeps his movements slow when he reaches for the loose tie at Harry’s neck. Carefully, he pulls at the end of the knot, the little bow unravelling and eventually falling loose. It drapes against Harry’s chest for a moment, before Harry reaches his arms up and tugs the shirt off, over his head.

At first, Louis is almost overwhelmed by the sight of him. Harry is made up of broad, sharp lines and smooth, bronze skin, and Louis feels struck by the need to consume every single inch of him. He wants to touch, to taste, but most of all to keep. _This is your soulmate_ ; his body screams — _made for you, your forever_.

Nothing says it more clearly than the tendril of black lines that peek tantalisingly over the waistband of Harry’s trousers. It is a stark contrast to the rest of him, the clean, unblemished skin that makes up more of Harry’s torso. The winding black lines curve in the same wild and untamed fashion that Louis’ do, an exact reverse replica for the mark on Louis’ own body.

Louis stares for far too long, simply trying to process the sheer magnitude of this marvellous, magnificent thing. The silence that his transfixed gaze leaves in its wake is eventually broken, by Harry.

He looks so open, so vulnerable, like this. It seems almost wrong that Louis should see him this way, so helpless and exposed. It is only more proof that Harry would always be the braver of the two of them, the first to dive in head first and damn the consequences.

Louis doesn’t deserve him, but _Christ_ does he want to.

“Is it?” Harry says, haltingly. “I mean, do you—?”

Louis knows where his question is going to lead, and that Harry thinks he even need ask only speaks to how much harder Louis will have to work to earn a place in his life.

“You may well be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Louis says quietly, reverently.

A flush appears at Harry’s neck, reaching down and across Harry’s chest, and he reaches up to awkwardly hold the back of his neck. The action ripples through the muscles of his arm, and suddenly Louis doesn’t know where to look, so swept up in trying to take it all in at once.

“I mean it,” Louis says, and Christ, his voice is embarrassingly hoarse. “ _Botticelli’s Venus_ , the _Sistine Chapel_ , _David_ — you blow them all away by a mile.”

Louis has only ever seen pictures of such masterpieces, but he does not need to see them to know that they pale in comparison to the young man standing opposite him. How could they possibly compete?

Harry is a stunning pink by the time Louis has finished speaking. “You should not jest about such things, Louis,” he says.

Louis gapes at him. “Who is jesting?” he demands. “Who could jest? All anyone would have to do is look at you and they would see—” He cuts himself off, suddenly so profoundly uncomfortable with the thought of someone else — _anyone_ else — seeing Harry in this state that he loses the words entirely.

Harry seems bemused by his sudden wordlessness, but he doesn’t press the issue. Instead, his blushing pink face turns playful and he pushes himself forward to take Louis back into his arms.

“And you?” he says, “Who shall I compare you to?”

His head comes down and his teeth scrape at the crux of Louis’ neck. Louis lets out a weak noise of his own, his hand coming up to clutch at Harry’s shoulders. He struggles to make sense of Harry’s question straight away, but when he does his skin takes on a pinkness of it’s own.

“Uh,” he says eloquently. “I could not tell you?”

Louis knows that he is not the most unattractive of men, but he also knows that his shorter stature and boyish features did not always stir the more passionate emotions. To know that even a part of Harry’s attraction to him was for his face, and not solely for his mark, would be a blessing.

He says as much, and is greeted with a look of such stark shock that he worries for a moment Harry has misunderstood. Before he can clarify, however, Harry speaks.

“Now you are surely playing with me,” he says. Then, at Louis’ bewildered look, he lets out a short and incredulous laugh. “You must know that it is not your mark that has kept me so caught up by you.”

Louis stares at him. “What?”

He instantly regrets saying it. All at once, some of the warmth seems to leave the room, fading like the smile on Harry’s face. “ _Louis_.”

“No,” Louis hastens to explain. “I didn’t mean it like that — I, I just. I cannot believe you would invite such hassle into your life, if it weren’t for the marks.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate, stepping forward and soothing his hands down Louis’ shoulders. He is still very shirtless, but the vulnerability that had initially accompanied it seems to have lessened. Instead, Louis is taken by the sheer strength that Harry conveys.  

“Louis,” he says, speaking low and incredibly clear. “These marks have become, to me, nothing more than a happy accident of fate.” He smiles, the look itself almost sad as it takes in whatever confused expression that must mask Louis’ features. “The mark led me to you. That is all the kick that I needed.”

Louis gapes at him. “I don’t,” he says. “I don’t understand.”

Harry smiles. Somehow, the look is both happy and sad.

“It was not your mark that comforted me after my father’s funeral,” Harry continues, “When I was nothing but a stranger to you. And it is not your mark that has fought so steadfastly, and so selflessly, to further your family’s happiness.”

Technically, Louis could hear everything that Harry was saying it. Processing it, however, was another thing entirely. “You mean?” Louis struggles, “That you would — you would—”

He loses the words when Harry chooses that moment to take Louis’ hand in his. Without pause, he brings both of their hands down over his mark.

“I cannot say where we would stand, if it weren’t for this,” Harry says. “But if it were not here, then I can promise I would still be admiring you from afar.”  

Louis doesn’t know what to think about a life without his mark. Certainly he would have still met Harry, but would he have felt so intensely for him? He barely needs to think on it. The answer is irrevocably yes. He admires Harry for his shrewd mind, his kind soul and his gentle heart. That, he is certain, would be present with or without the lines that mar his hip.

To hear it said so plainly in reverse, however, is a difficult thing, indeed.

“You are too much,” Louis says, because that at least is a truth he can wrap his head around — something that he believes with his entire being. “You are far too much for me.”

Harry takes a step closer into Louis’ space, holding him impossibly close and smiling so deeply that his dimples make their reappearance.

“On the contrary,” he says. “We may quarrel over ‘what if’s’ and wonder where we might be under a different set of circumstances, but we cannot change the facts.”

Louis does his best to match Harry’s smile. “And which facts are those?” he asks.

With that, Harry bows his head. He touches his nose ever so gently to Louis’ and hovers there, his arms holding Louis’ tightly.  

“The facts,” he says, “are that I wear a mark that promises you are the only one in the world for me. And I am certainly inclined to agree.”

♣

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you know, your thoughts mean the world to me, so please remember to leave a comment and let me know what you think!


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